Saving You
by free annabel
Summary: DMHG. Hermione and Draco have demons: one is being abused, the other is locked to a sinister duty. When a relationship begins amidst the chaos, can they change? When a plot threatens to overtake them, can love conquer all? NEW EDIT! OVER 100 PAGES ADDED!
1. Their Prologues

_Saving You—DMHG. Hermione Granger has a secret, one that's literally killing her. Who will come to her rescue? What if the only one who can is Draco Malfoy? Rated M for sexual content (including rape), suicide ideation, and violence._

_Disclaimer—Most of the characters and a lot of the setting belong to J.K. Rowling. The rest is mine._

A/N: (Last updated Nov. 26, 2009) I'm having a hard time finishing the sequel to this story, in part because I feel _Saving__You_isn't really complete. Therefore, I am in my fourth, and hopefully final, edit of this story. Pages may be added or subtracted from this point. I'm making it better, I promise. Bear with me.

* * *

_**Saving You**_

**:::Their Prologues:::**

:::Her Prologue:::

Things hadn't always been the way they were now. Once upon a time, her life had made perfect sense.

She'd lived in a rather lovely house situated in the outskirts of Greater London, slept in an always-tidy room with clean ivory trim. She'd had doting parents who dedicated their time to straightening out anything in their world that wasn't perfect, from the crooked frames on their walls to their patients' crooked teeth. She'd had friendly neighbors who always smiled and said how-do-you-do, teachers who put gold stars on the homework she always turned in in perfect cursive.

She'd been perfectly content in that version of the world, the one with endless possibilities at her disposal, the one full of hopes and dreams that she'd never doubted would come true. The veneer of perfect pleasantness had disguised any wrongs—when she'd looked at her life she'd noticed nothing out of place: no peeling paint; no rug burns; no mosquito bites, no mosquitoes.

Things had been so simple then. She had been so innocent. She had been so happy.

But not anymore.

Change had glided into her life on the wings of a spotted owl: she'd been accepted into an elite school that no one in her quaint world had ever heard of, a school with an unusual name and an unusual curriculum. A school for magic.

A school for _witches_.

That owl, with its tiny beak holding tight to that letter, had been the first _un_usual thing to ever meet her gaze. And it changed her vision entirely—forever. After that day she never saw _normal_ again.

Her mother, once always within reach, seemed to withdraw from her completely. Her father, once mild, hot and cold. And it wasn't long before one's harmful absence and the other's even more harmful presence shattered everything she thought she knew.

At Hogwarts, she worked to be the fastest, the smartest, the _best_—partly to prove to her father that she was worth something, and partly to prove it to herself.

But she didn't, couldn't. Wouldn't ever again. There was no way to make something out of nothing. And that's what she was, what she would always be.

_The mudblood..._

And her father always lost his senses—always lost control. The palms of his hands always found her skin somehow—in gentle strokes, in violent strikes. Being at the heart of his turbulence—_being_ the heart of it—she learned what she was worth, all she was good for. She saw her truth in every bruise, heard it in every heavy footstep that stalked closer and closer to her bedroom door.

And after he was done with her, he'd leave his ragged guilt and empty apologies behind him, would leave her numb and alone in that quaint little room with the ivory trim. In silence, she would resort to the blade, would run it hard across her skin. She could not feel, so the stripes and scabs would be her humanity. She could not cry, so the drops of blood would be her tears. She watched, silent, serene, as the dark red flowed out of her and down her skin over the bruises... draining her of the filth within…

And she was clean. She could start tomorrow clean...

And not even her friends, Harry and Ron, knew her fate. Not even arrogant Malfoy suspected.

* * *

:::His Prologue:::

Things had always been the way they were now. He had been bathed in liquid gold his entire life. There was no object he couldn't obtain, no person he couldn't control, nothing and no one he couldn't make his. Even as a child he'd had royal command—a trait he'd inherited from generations past.

His parents didn't hate him, but they didn't love him either. Over time he'd learned to appreciate the freedom of distance. He could do what he wanted to do and go where he wanted to go—so long as it didn't sully the pristine Malfoy reputation. And as long as he possessed that imperial surname, he could get himself in and out of whatever trouble he desired.

His magical abilities were unsurpassed—his father's harsh lessons and severe schedules had seen to that. But the strict regimens intended to make him dutiful had only succeeded in making him rebellious. The rules had only succeeded in teaching him how to break them. And so he did break them—easily, endlessly. He surrounded himself with every luxury, every _distraction,_ a man could want. The parties, the power, the money, the women—they gravitated to him naturally, like planets around the sun. But he knew his freedom could only stretch so far, for so long. Beneath the opulence and privilege, the cold expectations remained. One more thing came with the Malfoy name—a catch in the contract, one he couldn't escape, no matter how many games he played, one he couldn't forget, no matter how much he drank...

_The Death Eater..._

And he dreaded his duty as if it were death itself. What power was there, to live in fear? What freedom was there, to call another man 'Master'? There was none, and he knew it. He suspected his father knew it, too, probably a minute too late. Once the Dark Mark was melted into your skin, it could never be removed.

And he went through the days as every prince does: with a charming smile and a superior attitude. He hid his dread away and turned his focus to the glitter of life, which only a fortune and bloodline like his could afford.

And he spent the fading nights drinking, gambling, fucking—trying to forget the fate that waited for him just over the dark horizon. Trying to live his life—and live it hard—while he still had his own life to live. While he still had is own choice to make. He spent the endless hours steeped in decadence and pleasure, bitterly reaping the benefits of being born a Malfoy, waiting for the day when he would have to face the consequences.

And sometimes amidst the ambient noise he would stare into his drink—into his losing hand of cards—into the lust-hazed eyes of his distraction for the night—and think about that time in the not-so-distant future when the game would be over and he'd be totally and irreversibly alone.

And not even the _great_Harry Potter and his sidekick, Weasel, knew his fate. Not even know-it-all Granger suspected.

* * *

A/N: Please, please, please review and read on. Chapters are much longer from here on out. This was just a short little something to start things out. Hope you like it...

love, free annabel


	2. Safe at Hogwarts

_Saving You—DMHG. Hermione Granger has a secret, one that's literally killing her. Who will come to her rescue? What if the only one who can is Draco Malfoy? Rated M for sexual content (including rape), suicide ideation, and violence._

_Disclaimer—Most of the characters and a lot of the setting belong to J.K. Rowling. The rest is mine._

A/N: Last updated Nov. 28, 2009.

* * *

**:::Safe at Hogwarts:::**

England rain drizzled down outside, the light pitter-patter of it hitting the roof, the sound soothing Hermione. The morning sky was dim and grey, making the heavens seem like a gloomy place. The people walking along the sidewalks wore heavy raincoats and boots, their umbrellas reflecting the raindrops as they lazily fell to the ground. Those people blended so well into the colorless scheme that she could almost see the beauty in it.

Almost.

She turned away from the window, resumed her silent packing. She folded her clothes by hand, not bothering to use the wand that sat an arm's reach away on the mattress. She preferred the unrushed pace, and though she was running late for the train, she didn't have enough energy to hurry.

Closing the trunk, she moved to the mirror, staring blankly at the girl she saw there. Light scarring cascaded down the right side of her neck, ruining the smooth alabaster from the top of her spine to the scale of bones along her shoulder. She couldn't recall what exactly she'd done, but she could remember her father's familiar reaction to whatever it was: the impatient way his eyes rolled when he perceived her disobedience; the way his affectionate smile turned grim and hot as he watched her move about the room; the way his voice raised, the way he spoke through his teeth as he harassed her. "Why must you always tempt me, sweeting? Why do you always make me hurt you?"

She had recognized the tone in his voice just before he'd snapped, just before the scalding water had poured over her skin. She had known something was coming. But she hadn't screamed or gasped, hadn't run or cowered away or even stepped aside. There was no need—she couldn't feel it. She was numb to the pain. Only the gentle slide of water and the warm rush of heat had lingered…

She was grateful that she'd at least been left with that much. She cherished whatever pain _did_ happen to penetrate through. It was the only proof she had that she was still alive. And even then, she wasn't always convinced...

She sighed, watching the girl in the mirror sigh with her.

Hermione had always been awkward, both in personality and in appearance. Her bushy hair and shapeless form had failed to leave lasting impressions. The fact that she was _intelligent_ tended to scare the opposite sex away—and the boys who were smart enough to not be intimidated by her didn't appreciate her either, because to them, she was nothing more than competition.

And she was comfortable with it that way. Being _competition_ suited her. It made her faster, sharper, stronger. It gave her the chance to focus on her work, on being the best that she could be—an ambition that, over time, evolved into just wanting to be the best, period.

But as the years passed, her appearance had begun to soften. Her frizzy hair had begun to smooth, until finally all that was left of the bushy mess had been long, luxurious curls. A woman's body had begun to form without any effort at all, thinning out in some places, rounding out in others. She suddenly found herself in the disconcerting position of being desired. She started to notice her classmates scrambling to be her assigned partner, boys with _A_-averages "needing" her to tutor them after lessons. They began to cater to her need for approval by agreeing with her interpretations of books, by letting her answer all the teachers' questions, praising her when she was right and consoling her when she was wrong.

Hermione never adapted to this new perception they all seemed to have of her. The pressure to be _more_ weighed even heavier on her now—the pressure to be perfect, or, at least, to _appear_ to be. So she continued to go through the motions as this newer, thinner Hermione Granger—and it was only the two men closest to her who sensed the cracks splintering underneath.

Taking up her wand, Hermione held the tip lightly against the marks on her skin. "_Tego_," she whispered, watching as the water-scars disappeared, blending into nothing. Bitterly she thought about how cruel the world was, of how scars were drawn so effortlessly, and how with such difficulty they faded away.

_If _they faded away.

Still looking at her reflection, at the place where the blistering burn had been, she smiled humorlessly. All those drooling boys didn't realize that she was still the ugly duckling. They didn't see the scars that lay hidden beneath the magic, the lines that marred her skin. They had never seen the evidence of her secret shame, the proof that she wasn't as perfect as they all thought—that she wasn't anything at all. They had never seen the truth... only a spell, a magic trick, a lie.

Hermione raised a hand, lightly placed it on her neck, felt the wound burn underneath its invisibility. The skin that had been red and raised only moments before was softer now, smoothed over by the Concealment Spell. Her solemn smile became a cynical laugh. Like all the others, the scar would probably never pale or fade away. Once she lifted the spell, all the hidden slashes would reappear.

They were never really _gone_, not even with the magic.

"Hermione!" called a woman's voice from down the stairs. "Hermione, you're going to miss your train!" Hermione didn't move, didn't even glance to the door. "Damn it, Hermione—I have a plane to catch! If you want a ride to the station you'll have to hurry it up!"

Hermione didn't call back to her mother. Silently, she collected her things, slinging her bag over her shoulder, taking her trunk by its handle, clutching Crookshanks' kennel to her waist. And with one last look around, and one final glance at the girl in mirror, she pulled her luggage, and herself, away.

* * *

The rain was coming down in heavy drops, splashing against the manor's rooftops and into the metal gutters at the covering's edge. The vacant hills of English countryside that surrounded the mansion were veiled in shades of grey, the smoke-colored clouds drifting so close to the ground that they seemed almost to touch. The wind was picking up, blowing the leaves and branches of the stray trees, bending their thin trunks until they looked like they might snap.

There was a knock on Draco's bedchamber door, a quiet, timid sound.

"Enter," he called, not turning from the window. The creak of the door signified obedience.

"The master sent Squiggly to fetch Master Draco," a tiny voice said from behind him. "The master is impatient for him to come."

"He can wait," Draco told the house-elf tersely, his eyes still on the rolling hills.

There was silence and then a worried sound. "Master says Master Draco should not miss his train," the house-elf went on bravely. "He says that you cannot be late for school again this year."

Draco clenched his jaw hard and did not answer. A strangled moan came from the small creature. "Master gave Squiggly direct orders, sir, and Squiggly cannot disobey." There was another pause. "He says Squiggly must not return without you, Master Draco."

Draco turned sharply from the wide window, his eyes falling to the servant elf. "Tell your _master _that I will leave whenever I _want_ to leave," he told Squiggly simply, "and not before."

The dangerous tone behind the words had the elf wringing his little hands, had him whimpering shrilly.

"What is that _confounded _noise?" barked someone from down the corridor. The master of the house appeared at the end of the corridor, his head snapping in the creature's direction, his silver eyes, so like his son's, already condemning. "You—house-elf!" he demanded, heading down the long hallway towards the slave's tiny quaking form. "Didn't I give you business? Where is my son?"

"I'm here," Draco called easily. His eyes connected with the little servant's. He made a short, cutting nod, warning the elf away before their master could get too close. Squiggly didn't have to be told twice. He scrambled out of sight just as Lucius stormed into it.

He stepped into the room, the pure embodiment of annoyance. The men regarded each other for one long moment, twin sets of eyes both vigilantly watching, a twin set of guards both raised high.

After a few tense moments, Lucius spoke. "The Express has been at the station for quite some time, Draco," he informed his son sternly.

Draco looked at the clock, nodded in acknowledgment. "I can see that."

Lucius' eyes narrowed with practiced patience. "Then perhaps you can explain to me why you're here and not there."

Draco shrugged an indifferent shoulder. "I wasn't aware I was required to be the first man on the train," he said with a sarcastic smile.

Fury heated in Lucius' eyes, but he kept it repressed, kept his voice reserved. "Don't get cute with me, boy," he ordered icily. "I've put up with your wasteful frolicking, your _apathy_, for long enough. Believe me when I say I will have none of it this year. You have a responsibility to me, to your mother, and to all the Malfoys that came before, to carry on the prestige of this family name. You may not understand the kind of strings I've had to pull for you—in the school, in our Circle. I'll tell you, Draco, it has not been easy work..."

Oh, but Draco _did _understand. He knew all too well what his father had done, the 'strings' he had pulled, easy work or not. Head Boy wasn't the only title Lucius had sold his son into. The role of Death Eater followed close behind, a deep, dark shadow that clung to him always, like a death shroud.

"And I cannot have your Joining compromised by even the slightest misbehavior," his father was warning. "There will be no more gambling, no more drinking, no more gallivanting around with that string of harlots you keep at hand. It is _imperative_ that your status not be sullied by misconduct of any kind."

"I understand," Draco assured the older man crisply, his voice deadpan, like his eyes.

"Do you?" Lucius stepped forward, looking skeptical. "There are big plans for you, Draco," he informed his son seriously. "Bigger than I think you will _ever _comprehend."

Draco looked into his father's eyes, recognized the cool steel of his own. The men stared each other down, each one daring the other to cross him. After two tense moments passed, Draco was forced to relent.

"I've decided I'm leaving now," he told his father edgily.

Lucius smiled in satisfaction. "Excellent," he said shortly. He watched as his son pulled on a long tailored robe. "Don't forget to kiss your mother before you do."

And then he was gone, leaving Draco without so much as a 'good luck' or a goodbye.

* * *

The drive to King's Cross Station was long and silent. Diana Granger made no attempt at conversation with her daughter, didn't even spare her a glance. The woman, instead, was focused on weaving between the cars, from one lane to another, obviously frustrated with the downtown traffic.

The radio was off, but the light rhythm of rain against the windshield, of wipers swiping it away, provided a solemn soundtrack for the quiet ride. The upbeat ring of a mobile phone interrupted the silence, the theme song from some television sitcom or another sounding over the rain. The cheerful tune was painfully out of place on a dreary morning such as this.

"Diana Granger," was how she answered. No 'Hello?' in a frilly voice, no warm words or inviting tone—just business, all business, always business. "Jack. Hi." She switched the tiny cell from one ear to the other. "Yeah, it's a traffic nightmare. Would've gone the way you told me to, only I have to make a stop."

Hermione smiled thinly at the words. That's all she was now, all she had become: _a stop_, one that was always taking Diana Granger out of her way.

The sound of a horn honking could be heard in the distance. "Is everything set up...? Good. Give me the rundown." Diana's brows furrowed as she listened to the voice in her ear. "Yes... perfect..." And then: "_What?_" she snapped. "I specifically told her to put the newer drill out—no, the _newer _handpiece, Jack. That's what we're trying to _sell_, isn't it?"

Without warning, a tiny yellow sports car cut into the lane in front of them. Diana quickly stepped on the break, narrowly avoiding a collision. "_Watch where you're going, you bloody git!_" she shouted, though, of course, the man in the sports car couldn't hear her. "Sorry. Damn city drivers," she explained into the phone. The man named Jack must have returned with some humorous quip because Diana let out a light, uncharacteristic laugh.

Hermione looked at her mother, surprised, but it was only a glance, just as fleeting as the laughter itself. The businesswoman returned within seconds, leaving Hermione to wonder if she had really heard the warm sound at all.

"I'll be at the airport in—" Diana took the phone away from her ear so she could glance at her wristwatch. "I don't know... twenty-five, thirty minutes, tops." She sighed. "I know, but I've got to drop Hermione off at King's Cross Station." A short silence, the quiet patter of raindrops. "Hermione," she said again, expectant. "My _daughter_ Hermione." Another pause. "Nonsense. I'm sure I must have mentioned her sometime." The voice in her ear must have disputed that, because she shook her head in wonder.

But Hermione held none of that same surprise. Why would Diana have mentioned her? Why, when she had _business_ to talk about: dental drills, big corporate deals. She had places to go and toothpaste to sell. She had never let the child she'd carried in her stomach affect all that. For whatever reason, Diana Granger had chosen long ago where her priorities rested—at dental conventions in countries far away from England. Far away from Hermione…

Diana was still barking orders into the phone when the car pulled up to the sidewalk at King's Cross Station. Wordlessly, Hermione gathered her luggage, struggling with her heavy trunk, patiently dragging it on the wet pavement towards the platform. She didn't turn back to smile or wave goodbye, not even as the car sped away from the curb and disappeared from sight.

Hermione walked slowly, taking all the time in the world, moving as if she had no particular destination in mind. Loading her trunk onto an empty trolley, she pushed unhurriedly through the rain, not bothering to shield herself from the gentle downpour. By the time she reached the platform, her clothes and hair were drenched. Without help, she loaded her belongings onto the train. And then, silently, she boarded herself.

The buzz of excitement echoed through the passageways. Hogwarts students of all sizes and ages were drifting from compartment to compartment, hugging their housemates, gabbing about summer, about classes, catching up. Hermione searched the endless cars for her friends, wanting desperately to see them, to hug them and have them hug her. Wanting to feel protected for once, _loved _for once—wanting to try. But, alas, she couldn't find them, and was forced to conclude that they weren't on board.

Hermione found the last empty compartment at the front of the train and moved into it tiredly. Slowly, she sat, situating Crookshanks' cage beside her. Her soaked clothing and wet curls dripped onto the floor, already creating miniscule puddles beneath and around her.

She turned her gaze out the window, watching the raindrops as they slid down the glass. People stood in clusters on the platform, waving goodbye to their daughters and sons. Hermione closed her eyes to them, not wanting to think of her own family. She would be safe again with Harry and Ron. She would be safe at Hogwarts... at least from her parents, at least for now.

She watched as the train slowly began to pull away from the station, watched as the clumps of people became distant specks, watched as they disappeared into nothing at all. She smiled sadly. The Express could take her away from her father, but she carried his voice in her head, his brutality on her body. She could be safe from him for a while, but she would never, _never_ be safe from herself.

* * *

Draco ran onto the Hogwarts Express _just _as it began to inch forward on the tracks. The narrow cars were packed full of excited students, leaving almost no space for late arrivals. He pushed his way through the crowded passageway, searching from one room to another, not wanting to have to resort to the dreaded Head Boy Compartment. None were empty, and he cursed himself for letting his pride make him so late.

"Malfoy," came a low, easy voice from in front of him. "Better late than never, I suppose."

Draco looked up. "Zabini," he said with a nod—no handshakes or hugs were exchanged between Slytherins. "Where are you?"

Blaise pointed a thumb over his shoulder. "At the end with Crabbe and Goyle. And Pansy, of course," he added with a faint smile. "She's been waiting ever so patiently for you in there."

Draco looked towards the compartment with something akin to dread. "Perfect," he replied dully. The determined hanger-on had been his shadow since their youth, always a single step behind him in everything he did. "Where are you headed?" he asked the darker-skinned boy, wanting a distraction, not wanting to think of _her_.

Blaise smiled. "To find the sweet trolley," he answered mildly. "She's been the Spanish Inquisition all day, demanding to know where you are. I need some sort of sustenance to regain my strength."

A new, more feminine voice entered on cue. "Blaise, you still haven't heard anything from—" Pansy's feline eyes landed on Draco, brightening with satisfaction. "Draco," she finished smoothly. "Finally. There you are. I was beginning to worry you'd miss the train."

The woman before him was by no means ugly. Looking at her now, Draco was forced to acknowledge the opposite. Pansy was every virile man's fantasy. Smooth, straight hair fell to her shoulders in shiny streams. Steamy, staring sloe-eyes watched him—dark blue, like cold night sky. Mascara-coated lashes spiked sexily across her eyelids. Wide, sultry lips pouted, even when things were right. Her body, like a battleaxe, had curves that could slay even the hardest of men…

But when Draco watched those killer curves, he felt not fire ignite. Instead, all he felt was... _resentment_.

Marriage in aristocratic, _pure _society was still trapped in the Dark Ages. In their world, _happiness _and _love _were the products of mere coincidence—_proper _marriages weren't built on emotions or compatibility, but rather on things like status and wealth. Dowries, bloodlines, and reputations were _essential_ in the choosing of an appropriate life partner. Parents were the ones who arranged influential matches for their heirs—and the Malfoys and Parkinsons were no exception to the rule. They had all but pledged their families' union at Pansy's birth, and though Lucius had never said outright that he would force Draco into matrimony, it was a cultural understanding that passed from every father to his son.

Still, like with every expectation, Draco had dragged his feet. He had never completely committed to Pansy. To everyone's great dismay—most especially _hers_—he had never declared them an official couple. He brought her to school functions, sat with her at meals, corresponded with her over summer. He had kissed her five or six times, had slept with her once. But he showed her no affection, graced her with no promises. He had _scores _of other girls who kept him far better entertained, and he only ever chose her company over theirs for duty's sake.

He made no secret of that fact, not even to her, which made her devotion to him all the more pathetic.

"Pansy," he acknowledged shortly, nodding once, and though anyone with ears would know it was merely a patient greeting, _Pansy_ took it as an invitation. Breezily, she came forward, latching onto him with surprising strength. She guided him forward, towards the Head Boy and Girl Compartment, leaving an always-amused Blaise Zabini behind.

Draco clenched his jaw, but didn't pull away, didn't object as she began to speak disdainfully about some muggle-born first year who had already managed to earn her contempt. But halfway down the train he had already lost his patience.

"While I just _adore_ hearing all about your little spats with the fledglings, Pansy, I think it might be best if I continue to the Head Compartment alone," he said through his teeth, drawing them both to a halt. "It is meant for Head Boy and Girl, after all. I'm sure there's a more suitable compartment for you to ride in."

Pansy looked up at him through her dark bangs and heavy lashes, pulling his sleeve with her signature pout. "There you go already, trying to push me away," she purred. "You're always trying to be so tough, playing like you don't want to get too close."

"I'm not playing," he assured her tightly. "I _don't_ want to get close. Not to you."

Pansy only smiled, more than accustomed to his darker moods. "Now, now, no need to be harsh," she reprimanded, clucking her tongue. Her dark eyes sparkled, playful and possessive. "You know, I'd let you go on your way if I thought you wouldn't go looking for some other chit to take my place."

He heard the edge behind her lighthearted tone. That, and the claim of ownership, had tolerance withering fast. "What I do when I'm not with you is none of your concern."

"Perhaps," she agreed quietly. "But you and I both know that that won't always be the case." And then she laughed, as if charmed by his cruel candor. "For once in your life, don't be so obstinate." A pause. "I'm sure Head Girl won't mind if I sit in."

"Maybe _I _mind," he told her darkly.

Pansy only rolled her eyes. "I've spent the entire summer without you, Draco. You're not escaping me that easily."

Draco gritted his teeth and continued to let her pull him through the cars. They reached the front of the train, where the last compartment waited. _Head Boy & Girl_ was etched into a wooden sign on the door.

Pansy looked through one window into the tiny room, smiled with satisfaction at the sight of empty seats. "The Head Girl's not in there, anyway, whoever she is. So I won't be bothering anyone." Without giving him another chance to object, she threw the door open and sauntered inside.

"If only that were true," Draco stated under his breath.

Running a frustrated hand through his hair, he happened to glance to the side, into the compartment opposite his. A lone thin figure sat quietly by the window, staring through the glass at something far away.

Hermione Granger...

Ready to dismiss her immediately, as he always did, he turned to enter his own compartment. And then suddenly he turned back, urged on by some unknown force.

He assessed her with narrowed eyes.

She was drenched to the bone, her school uniform soaked with rain, clinging to her body like a second skin. Her light brown hair was dark with water, long tendrils of it hanging over her shoulders and down her back. She sat, spine straight, rigid against the backrest. Her hands were folded together and resting unmoving in her lap. She should have been shivering, but he didn't see her shake—he couldn't even see her _breathe_. She was as still as a marble sculpture, her stone gaze glued on the distant landscape as it passed.

His brows furrowed.

Granger had never been anything much: at times mousy, at times strident; bookish and plain; off-putting, of course, because she knew all the answers; obnoxious because she never tried to conceal it. Their childhood rivalry had always made her unappealing to him—even now, years after it had cooled.

But... the Hermione Granger he saw now intrigued him... _attracted _him. Something about her called to his blood. He didn't know what.

He wasn't sure he wanted to.

Sensing his gaze, she turned her head—a slight, slow movement that brought her chocolate eyes to his. He raised a brow. There was something there he'd never seen... or, rather, something gone from them that he remembered being there before. Where he expected to see fire, or ice, or _something_, he saw only wariness. The answers she'd always flaunted were gone from their dark depths... lost...

Draco recognized those eyes. He had seen them in the mirror, in his own reflection, a thousand times. They were the eyes of someone with secrets. The eyes of someone who had seen too much.

Hermione stared back, her gaze frank, unafraid. What was it he was trying to figure out? What was it he was trying to find? Or was he realizing now what she had known all along—that not everything is how it appears on the surface. That there is more to a person than what they let you see.

_Nothing is ever as perfect as it seems..._

She smiled at him, a soft, sad turning up of lips.

_Nothing, Malfoy—not even know-it-all Granger._

Draco frowned. He saw a message in her eyes, one he couldn't decode.

What did it mean? Why, suddenly, did it matter?

"What's the matter?" Pansy poked her head out of the door. She tried to follow Draco's gaze, her eyes narrowing as they landed on the soaked girl in the other compartment. "What are you looking at?" she asked primly, even though she knew very well what—and who—it was.

One last silent moment passed between them. And then Draco turned his eyes away. "Nothing," he said, bringing the satisfied smile back to Pansy's lips. "No one."

He settled into his seat in the Head Boy and Girl Compartment, clenching his jaw tightly as Pansy lowered her head to his shoulder. She began to give him a play-by-play of her summer in French Polynesia. Though her voice was practically _in _his ear, Draco didn't hear a word. His mind was far away… focused on Hermione Granger's sad—_and strangely alluring_—brown eyes.

* * *

The black Hogwarts carriages were waiting for them at Hogsmeade Station, their dark hoods in place to shield their passengers from the rain.

Hermione watched with wistful eyes as the first years marveled at the wagons, at their large, elegant wheels, at the light glow within the lanterns that were mounted to their sides; watched as disappointment weighed down their smiles when they were herded off in another direction.

She rounded the line of coaches, ready to hop into the nearest one—and suddenly stopped short.

Slowly, carefully, she backed away with a frown.

The thestrals... She could _see _them. Long, large, and black as the night around them, they stood between the carriages, patiently waiting to pull ahead. Their sunken skin was clinging like thin black shrouds over their bones. Their dark manes were blowing in the wet night breeze, and their skeletal dragon-faces pointed forward, hiding their white eyes.

Hermione swallowed. She didn't know why they were visible to her now. She hadn't seen death, hadn't dealt with any failing life force but her own.

Her gaze turned wary. Maybe that was why she could see them. Maybe her father had finally managed to kill off the last bits of life. Maybe this was proof that finally she was dead.

"You taking this one?" someone asked from behind her in a familiar Irish brogue.

Hermione didn't answer, just kept staring at the reptilian horses, her gaze distant, ghost-like.

The person came around her. "Oh, Mione, it's you. I didn't recognize you from behind." Seamus Finnigan smiled down at her. Habit had him coming forward to hug her, and Hermione let him, dutifully bringing one hand up to lightly pat his back.

But her eyes were still over his shoulder, grimly watching the death-creatures waiting beyond.

He released her. "You're soaked," he laughed, brushing drops of water from her shoulder. "It's barely raining. How the hell did you get so wet?"

Hermione was still. "I guess I didn't dry off much on the train," she answered absently.

Seamus shook his head with affection. "You should be wearing a school robe, at least. You'll be a sneezing mess tomorrow," he predicted. She didn't reply, causing his brows to furrow. "What are you staring at," he asked her, looking over his shoulder, trying to follow her gaze.

A moment passed. And then Hermione shook her head. "Nothing. Sorry." Her gaze slowly traveled to meet his. She forced herself to smile. "Have you seen Ron or Harry?"

"Nope," Seamus replied, causing her to sigh. He sent her a winning smile. "Knowing them, they'll probably show up fashionably late." Hermione nodded. "You could always ride up with me, Dean, and Neville." He began to look around. "They're floating around here somewhere. I told them to meet me by the carriages."

The two boys appeared on cue, but didn't notice their friends right away. "Just choose a carriage, Nev," Dean was commanding patiently. "It doesn't matter which one. They're all the same."

Neville was biting the inside of one round cheek. "But Seamus probably already found one," he argued as he stepped forward. "He's probably saving us seats. We told him we'd meet him, remember?"

Dean was about to reply when he caught sight of their missing friend. "There you are," he called, his step picking up. "Good thing we found you in this mess. Neville was worried."

Neville scratched his neck. "I was being a good friend." He shifted at the other boys' entertained smiles. "Hey, Hermione," he quickly distracted. "Are you riding up with us?"

"Of course she is," Seamus answered for her, putting a lighthearted arm around her shoulder.

"Good," Dean put in. "Then let's get her out of this rain." He smiled at Hermione. "You look like you just came out of the ocean," he informed her, tongue-in-cheek.

She tucked one long wet tendril behind her ear. "Do I?" she asked wanly.

"Yeah, pretty much," Seamus confirmed. "Here, get in." He ushered her forward, and she went without a fight, stepping up into the carriage and lowering to one cushioned seat. The boys piled in behind her, Neville taking a seat across from her, Seamus sitting next to him, and Dean sitting beside her, across from Seamus.

The dark-skinned boy immediately began to shed his robe. "Here—put this on, Hermione."

She shook her head. "It's okay. I'm fine." He stilled, sending her a questioning glance. "I'm not cold," she assured him.

"You _look_ cold," he told her, one eyebrow up.

"I'm not," she promised. She forced her lips up into a halfhearted smile. "Thanks anyway, though."

Dean shrugged and sat back. "If you change your mind..." he said, drawing the thing back up over his shoulders.

The boys talked as they waited for the carriage to move, sharing all the stories they'd saved up from over summer. Neville recounted his visit to the emergency room after tripping and falling down a flight of stairs. He drew up his sleeve to show off the six-inch scar that hadn't completely healed. Seamus bragged about his summer fling with a pretty Portuguese girl who'd just moved to Dublin—and brought out his wallet, which housed the pictures to prove it. Dean told them about the brushfire that had broken out during his camping trip in Lake District, and how he'd had to save the day with a wave of his magic wand.

"What about you, Mione?" Seamus asked her. "Got any war stories from the summer?"

Hermione swallowed. Yes, she had war stories—had very real battle scars carved into her skin. But they weren't the kind of scars you paraded around for the world. They were the kind you kept guarded, hidden, buried away from sight.

Her friends waited.

"I stayed home," she answered finally, trying to smile.

"Sounds eventful," Seamus laughed when she didn't go on.

Hermione only shrugged one shoulder and turned her gaze back out to the distant sky.

There was a small jolt, and then the carriage began to ease forward. The boys resumed their conversation, but it was all white noise to Hermione. Her mind was far away—as far away as those stars on the dark horizon.

She reached her hand out of the carriage and into the night, letting her palm catch the heavy raindrops as they fell.

What happened when your soul died off before your body, she wondered. How long could a heart last, how long could it beat on?

She tilted the hand, watching the rainwater stream from her skin.

She supposed she would find out for herself soon enough.

* * *

Draco stepped off of the Express and silently strode towards the carriages with his entourage in tow.

The slow, thick raindrops had reduced to a light drizzle. Still, Crabbe and Goyle were holding the necklines of their robes up over the back of their heads, trying to shield themselves from the tender downpour. Pansy had her designer umbrella opened, keeping herself dry, and only rolled her eyes when Blaise eased his way underneath the shell with her. But Draco, who walked ahead, didn't fight the rain. He let it float down onto him, dampening his clothes and his white-blond hair.

Most of the carriages were either occupied or claimed. Draco went to the nearest one, not knowing or caring whether it was taken. Two Slytherin fifth years were about to climb inside, but they were easily displaced with an imperial wave of the prince's hand.

No one moved to get in. Instead, they waited for their orders.

"Go on," Draco commanded quietly, nodding Crabbe and Goyle inside. "Take the left side." The larger boys obeyed, climbing up the single step and seating themselves where they were told.

Sharing a quick glance with Blaise, Draco silently stepped up next, disappearing to the far end of the wagon.

Pansy took the umbrella down from over her head, closing it, shaking the raindrops from its skin. And then she turned back to Blaise, expectant. "_Blaise_," she prompted impatiently when he didn't move, shooing him inside with her hand.

"After you," he said with a mocking bow.

Pansy crossed her arms. "You know how I hate being crammed in and claustrophobic," she told him expectantly. "I'll take the window."

Blaise straightened. His smile stayed in place, but it was no longer lighthearted. "I don't think so," he returned.

Pansy didn't budge. The princess was indignant at being denied—and the Amazon inside her was ready to demand deference. "Draco," she called, her eyes still glaring at Blaise. He was grinning at her with that placid, entertained smile. "_Draco_," she called again when he didn't come when he was summoned.

Draco appeared, eyes grim, jaw set. He stepped down to the footstep between the carriage and the ground. "Is there a problem?" he asked deadly.

"Why do _I_ alwayshave to sit in the middle?" she asked him with a pout. "I shouldn't have to be packed in between you two."

"You could always ride in another carriage," Draco bit off with practiced patience.

"Or one of _them_ could," Pansy returned, glancing pointedly at Blaise, then back again. She took one slow, sensual step forward, looking up at Draco through her eyelashes. She fingered the lapel of his robe. "Or _all_ of them could," she added, arching one long, suggestive eyebrow.

Blaise smiled from behind her. "A quickie in the carriage?" he asked amusedly. Pansy's head whipped around. "I'd expect that kind of thing from Draco—but _you_, Pansy? I thought you were all about class."

Pansy turned. She put on a feline smile, and walked to Blaise in one slow, sauntering step. "Maybe I am and maybe I'm not," she answered breathily. She lifted one manicured hand and smoothed it seductively down the side of his face. And then she patted his cheek hard, smiling with sugary sarcasm. "It's too bad you'll never be in the position to find out for yourself."

Blaise watched her with a raised brow as she stepped away. "I'm surprisingly at peace with it," he told her wryly.

"Then you don't know what you're missing," she said back sweetly.

Blaise's brow stayed high. "I can guess," he replied.

Pansy rolled her eyes at her friend and turned back to the silver-eyed man. "I don't know why you let him talk to me that way," she scolded with a playful pout.

"It's my job to manage you—not him," Draco informed her through his teeth.

Pansy's smile stilled. "Your job," she repeated tightly. "You make me sound like a chore."

Draco only looked at her grimly. "Get in the carriage, Pansy," he instructed quietly.

Her arms were crossed. She didn't so much as bat an eye.

"The front of the line has already started moving," he informed her, patience waning. "Get in the carriage," he commanded when she pouted. "Don't make me say it again." Without giving her another chance to disobey, he turned and retreated back to his seat.

A moment passed. And then out of the corner of his eye he saw that Pansy had relented, the way she always did, dutifully following him and taking her seat.

Blaise followed her, wearing that always-wry grin. The carriage began to jerk forward just as he lowered on Pansy's other side.

Crabbe and Goyle immediately began to fill the wagon with hot air, talking about their reluctance to start classes and describing the violent ways they planned to annihilate in the upcoming quidditch season. Pansy rolled her eyes, putting in a few haughty comments when appropriate, and Blaise contributed a sardonic statement here and there.

But Draco stayed silent, his gaze turned out to the dark scenery as it rolled by. The sprinkle of rain had once again become heavy drops, the sound of them tap-tapping against the carriage roof as they fell.

He stuck a hand out, letting water drench his skin, drew it back inside to slick through his dampened hair. He regarded the black around him with bleak grey eyes: the black night that cloaked a black and rainy world; the black carriage, drawn by black death-horses, that solemnly carried him forward, as if to death… the black future that waited like a shadow at the end of the road…

There was a bend in the uphill path, and Draco watched as the line of wagons slowly eased around it. As one made its turn, he could see something stretching out in the moonlight: one pale, delicate hand reaching into the night, catching the rain.

He shook his head and looked away. Somehow he knew it belonged to Hermione Granger.

* * *

The students poured into the Great Hall, talking loudly, looking around excitedly. People were taking their seats at their respective House tables, chatting about the summer, the new school year, the Sorting Ceremony and more. Hermione, however, moved slower than the rest, her eyes searching the crowded room uncertainly for her friends.

"Mione!" she heard someone call over the noise. "Mione, over here!" She turned slowly, finding the familiar source of the voice. A tall boy was standing at the edge of the room, smiling widely, a distracted redhead situated at his side.

Hermione flowed to them as if carried by a stream. "Hello," she said softly, only a whisper of a smile spreading her lips.

Harry opened his arms and she went into them, closing her eyes as he held her close. "Your clothes are damp," he laughed into her ear. She laughed, too, a small, quick, barely audible sound. "Aren't you cold?" he asked, holding her away.

Hermione shook her head, moving easily from Harry's warm embrace to Ron's. "We missed you," he told her, always a bit reluctant to admit it.

"I missed you, too," she whispered in return, backing away to meet his eyes. "I looked for you everywhere on the train."

"Ginny didn't want to take the Express," Harry informed her, one perplexed black brow raised. "We wrote to tell you where to meet us, but you didn't—"

"You didn't answer any of our letters!" an indignant Ron cut in. "We wrote, like, a thousand—"

"A dozen," Harry corrected dryly.

"And how many did we get back? A fat, whopping _zero_." Ron crossed his arms expectantly, waiting for an explanation.

Letters? Her eyes looked up at them from under furrowed brows. "I didn't..." _get any... oh!_

Hermione sighed inwardly as the puzzle pieces clicked into place. Mail was a privilege only _decent_ daughters were allowed. It wouldn't be the first time her father had hidden her letters from her—nor, no doubt, would it be the last.

She looked down, swallowing. "I didn't... have much time to write this summer," she covered quickly, hating the words, hating herself. There would always be more secrets, always more lies. Had she really believed she'd be safe from them here?

A second of silence passed before Harry nodded. "It's alright," he told her, hugging her to his side. "Right, Ron," he added, nudging his friend.

"I guess," Ron sighed grudgingly.

"So your summer was busy, eh?" Harry asked with a smile. "Was it fun finally being at home for a change?"

Hermione nodded, but couldn't muster a smile. "Lots," she told them, but it was just one more lie. "Maybe we should sit. Everyone else is," she said, trying to turn their attention—and her own—from summer vacation, from anything involving the place she called home and the person she called father.

The boys ushered their friend to the Gryffindor table, seating her between them. The bench was already so crowded that her shoulders were crammed on either side by one of theirs. Though it should have been uncomfortable, Hermione liked the feeling. Their strong arms framing her thinner ones had her feeling secure, supported, like there was no chance or way to fall as long as they stayed by her side.

"It's good to be together again," she whispered almost to herself, her voice just barely loud enough for Ron and Harry to hear.

They smiled at her comfortingly, nodded. But as Professor McGonagall began to speak, the boys shared a meaningful glance. Neither had failed to notice that she was even thinner than she'd been before, even paler. Her voice was even softer, even sadder.

Things had been bad last year. They hadn't thought it could get any worse.

And neither knew what to think except that something was very, _very_ wrong.

The first years were sorted into their newly assigned Houses before Dumbledore stood from his place at the center of the High Table. The hall went silent, waiting for the headmaster to speak.

"Firstly, apologies must be made to this year's newest Prefects," he said in a raspy voice that seemed to echo against walls, "as well as to our new Head Boy and Girl. I have just now been informed that hey have not received their badges. We must start by rectifying this immediately. Professor Snape will distribute them now." He nodded to Snape. "Severus..."

Snape stood from his seat. Leisurely, he retrieved a small scroll from the folds of his robes. He unraveled it, scanning its contents with a bland look of disapproval. "The Prefects from Hufflepuff: Charlotte Jennings and Luca Hale. Stand up, both of you," he commanded, his dark eyes scanning the hall.

The pair stood, each on opposite ends of their table, and a shiny badge appeared on the lapel of each of their robes, the word _Prefect_ engraved deep into the metal. Luca dropped into his seat, shy of the attention, but Charlotte smiled brightly at the applause and fiddled with the large pin before taking her seat.

"The Prefects from Slytherin: Alythia Barassa and Claudius Stark," Snape continued before Hufflepuff's cheers could completely die.

Alythia stood slowly, as if it was an annoyance to do so, and Claudius rose haughtily, sneering at the rest of the room. Slytherin clapped for them as their badges appeared, the whole table wearing similar smirks.

"The Prefects from Ravenclaw: Birdie Walsh and Chad Lander."

Birdie and Chad stood from their seats, both of their cheeks blushing red with embarrassment.

"And the Prefects from Gryffindor: Vianne Pirelli and Cal Crane."

Vianne rose, clapping giddily for herself, and Cal joined in with a playful bow that made even the strictest of the professors smile.

"Moving on to Head Boy. This year, from Slytherin..." The Slytherin table exploded into cheers, already recognizing their prince. "Draco Malfoy."

Dutifully, Draco stood, his face unreadable as the _Head Boy_ badge appeared on his robes. It was an honor, everyone said, a great achievement. They would never know his father had _bought_ everything for him. They would never know he didn't want it.

"And _finally_," Snape went on as if he really was relieved, "this year's Head Girl. From Gryffindor..." The Gryffindors broke out into surprised, excited applause. "Hermione Granger."

Hermione heard her name as if from miles away. It didn't register, not even when she felt a congratulatory pat on her back. Not even when she heard Snape call her name again. "Please stand, Miss Granger." She obeyed the command with uncertain eyes, rising silently from her seat.

"Hermione, why didn't you tell us?" someone was laughing from nearby. She hadn't told them because she hadn't known, herself. Apparently the change in transportation wasn't all she'd missed in this summer's mail.

She didn't speak, didn't smile, nor did she look down at the feel of the heavy badge as it fastened onto her clothes. It was an honor, she knew, a great achievement. They would never know her father had _spoiled _everything for her. They would never know she didn't deserve it.

Though hundreds of eyes were on Hermione, she felt only the _one_ pair. She looked over the Slytherin table, easily finding the intense silver of Malfoy's gaze. He raised his glass to her in silent salute, one intrigued brow arching. She let out a hollow laugh, the sound humorless and quiet. She didn't toast back, didn't so much as touch her glass, just shook her head sadly before slowly looking away.

"Mr. Malfoy, Miss Granger, please stay after the festivities." And with that said, Snape slowly slithered back into his seat.

The headmaster waited for the noise to settle down before standing to make his annual opening speech.

"Another year..." he began, his voice echoing thoughtfully. "Another year at the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry." A pause. "One more year of twists and turns, of challenges, changes, and surprises." His mouth twitched. "And, of course, of _magic_." A knowing light twinkled from behind those half-moon glasses. "Something is telling me it will be _quite_ theadventure. I am interested to see how it all turns out…"

The professor paused, as if listening to the silence—and then nodded, deciding it was enough.

"Let the feast begin."

* * *

"You didn't say anything about being Head Girl, Mione," Ron commented conversationally as he shoveled potatoes into his mouth.

Hermione shrugged a shoulder, pushing her food around on her plate, not bothering to bring any of it to her lips.

"I guess it means you'll be seeing a lot more of the _ferret_, what with him being Head Boy and all that." His voice held a mixture of resentment and disgust.

Hermione shrugged that same shoulder. "I guess."

Ron let out a sound of pure revulsion at the confirmation. "The thought of that _manky bastard_ being Head Boy makes my skin crawl," he declared with a shiver. "I just don't get it. Out of _all_the Prefects they could've chosen, why in God's name did it _have _to be _him_? It's not like the dung beetle has been deprived! He's been a Prefect the last two years, _and_ the Slytherin quidditch captain—not to mention he's filthy rich!"

"You sound jealous," Harry observed with a smile, piling more food onto his plate.

"Jealous? Of a dung beetle? I think not," Ron rebuffed. "I'm merely stating that Malfoy is the last person in this school—no, on the face of this _earth_—that deserves to be in charge of the school, and have his own luxury dormitory, and everything else that Head Boy gets."

Harry looked at Hermione then, realizing what her being Head Girl would mean. She would no longer be living with them in Gryffindor Tower. She would no longer be where he, Ginny, and Ron could keep an eye on her. Worse, she'd be living with _Malfoy_, whose heartlessness and hatred could only prove to make things worse.

And Harry didn't want to know what _worse_ looked like.

"I'd forgotten about the dormitories," Hermione said quietly, frowning down at her uneaten food.

"So had I," Harry admitted with a clenched jaw. She looked at him, and he forced himself to relax. "But we'll still be around all the time. Things will still be the same," he assured her with a smile. "There's nothing to worry about."

She wasn't worried—didn't know _how_ to worry anymore. But she nodded anyway. The fact that _he _was worried would have to be comfort enough.

"God, these potatoes are like something out of heaven!" Ron was saying, his mouth half-full of them as he spoke. "You should try them, Mione. They're amazing."

Hermione stared at her plate, sniffed. Her appetite was gone, had been gone for a long time, but she nodded, raising the heavy fork to her lips, taking a small bite. "Good, right?" he asked. She nodded once, swallowing, trying to smile.

Her friends smiled back, but they weren't convinced.

* * *

As the evening's festivities began to draw to a close and people began to depart in groups from the hall, Hermione headed slowly towards the High Table.

Malfoy, she saw, was already there, listening dutifully to a stern-looking Snape. But his eyes seemed to sharpen as she came into his line of sight; they stayed on her, bright, burning through her, and she had the sudden feeling that he wasn't listening to Snape at all.

"Hello, Miss Granger," Dumbledore welcomed warmly.

"Hello, professor." She looked from his twinkling eyes to Draco's cool, assessing ones, then back again.

"If you're both ready, I'll show you to your dormitory now." They glanced at one another. "Severus, if you'll excuse us."

"Of course. Albus, Draco, goodnight." And then, as a distant afterthought, "Miss Granger."

She nodded with downcast eyes. "Professor..."

Dumbledore lead them from the Great Hall, passing the time by humming an airy tune. Draco and Hermione walked in silence side by side, both of their heads straight, staring ahead. The figures framed within the paintings they passed showered them with welcomes, questions, and congratulations. But neither of them bothered to make a reply. Their gazes never strayed from the path before them, not even to glance at each other out of the corners of their eyes.

The headmaster slowly guided them up a staircase... around a corner... down a corridor... around another corner... up a second flight of stairs... through another hallway... so far into the stone fortress that they thought they'd never find their way out. When the only place to go was back the way they'd come, Dumbledore suddenly, finally came to a halt.

They couldn't know for sure what part of the castle they were in. There was a window at the end of the portrait-covered hallway, but it was too high and they were too far away to really see out.

"Where are we, exactly?" Draco asked the older man skeptically, once trying to see out the window proved unsuccessful.

Dumbledore looked at him seriously from over his half-moon glasses. "_Exactly_, we're at Latitude 56.203648570004034, Longitude -3.3782958984375. More informally, however, Mr. Malfoy, we call it _Scotland_," he added gravely.

Draco smiled blandly over tightly gritted teeth. "How illuminating," was his dry response.

The headmaster turned to face the nearest painting, fourth-to-last in the long line. A centaur was painted over shades of purple night. His arms and chest were strong, looking rock-hard to the touch. His hair was wild and coarse, falling in shaggy mane over his back. The contours of his body, half human and half horse, were haloed by moonlight as it streamed in through the trees.

Noticing them, the creature turned his gaze from its search of the starlit sky. Those wise eyes became expectant, waiting for them to speak.

"Domek," Dumbledore greeted warmly, nodding to the beast.

The centaur, whose name was legend in epic poems of ages past, nodded to the familiar man—but crossed his arms patiently, as if reserving judgment on the others.

Hermione and Draco waited, letting awkward silence fall. One moment passed, then two.

"The password, professor," the Head Boy prompted when no one spoke.

"Oh, yes, the password! Of course—I'd quite forgotten." He shook his head, smiling at his own forgetfulness. "As with every year, we've left it up to you two to decide on a password."

Draco looked at the centaur portrait as if the idea was unappetizing. "What, _now_?" he asked the headmaster unenthusiastically.

Dumbledore bobbed his head with a tiny smile.

The blond-haired man frowned, wondering how to come up with something on the spot that the girl next to him would consent to.

But he didn't have to. She beat him to it.

"_Pax pacis_," she suggested, her voice and eyes staying down.

_Peace… a truce._

Draco raised a brow, intrigued. He didn't argue.

Dumbledore's smile widened, that knowing glint brightening in his eyes. "_That_ is very fitting, I think."

Domek the Wise nodded slowly in approval, and the portrait silently opened, letting all three of them step inside.

Dumbledore watched his pupils' expressions as they took in their surroundings for the first time. One's was tense, strained, and skeptical; the other's was hesitant, wary, and sad. _Never_ had the headmaster seen a Head Boy and Girl more reluctant to receive their due. They appeared not to _want_ to look, as if it hurt or burdened them, their shaded eyes staying low, moving only in muted bursts as they scanned from wall to wall.

"This, of course, is your common room," he explained.

Hermione slowly looked around at the prize suite she had won, but not really deserved. It was quaint, and small, much smaller than the Gryffindor common room. The place was charming, intimate, every individual decoration adding to its elegant essence. The four walls were painted in cream, were bordered in black and dark, majestic red.

Across from where she stood, an archway opened up the space, revealing the start of a hallway that continued forward behind the wall. Two tall wooden bookcases stood guard on either side, leather-bound first editions resting in rows along their shelves.

To her left was a mahogany table, floral carvings blossoming over its legs. Sturdy chairs accommodated it, one on each end and three on each side.

"Eight chairs instead of two," Draco observed to fill the silence.

The old man nodded, his smile holding a mix of wisdom and good humor. "Officially speaking, of course, you are the only two allowed in this dormitory. But I made sure to have extras brought in—for those guests you 'aren't' going to have."

His words had their future at that table flashing before their eyes...

Draco saw playing cards, piles of coins, and empty bottles of firewhiskey; saw drunken Slytherin boys laughing away their losses and wins; saw perfumed girls sprawled out over chair arms and on laps, leaning over to blow luck onto small black-and-white dice; saw himself at the head of the table, trying to smile—and barely succeeding.

Hermione saw schoolbooks, Wizard's Chess boards, and half-drunk cups of tea; saw Harry and the other Gryffindor boys faithfully finishing late assignments; saw Ginny speaking from behind a fashion magazine; saw Ron smiling triumphantly as his king destroyed the opposing king; saw herself at the head of the table, trying to smile—and barely succeeding.

They turned their eyes away, wanting to banish the inevitable.

The rest of the room provided a welcome distraction from their thoughts. To the right was a Regency-style sofa, framed in wood, upholstered in satin, with two round tea tables that sat at each of its scroll-end arms. Two antique wingback chairs completed the set, which was situated around a low coffee table, facing the hearth.

The fireplace, wide and large, had curtained windows on either side, and the hearth housed flickering flames, ones that snapped audibly with heat. Above it, on its mantle, was the room's only real adornment: a square metal plaque that mysteriously read _Dum Spiro Spero_—or, _While I breathe, I hope_...

Hermione smiled without humor as she beheld the buoyant words. She knew firsthand that hope could die long before the body, knew that breathing wasn't necessarily a sign of life.

"Does that lead to our chambers?" she heard Malfoy ask of the archway that had first caught her eye.

Dumbledore answered with a nod. "And the bathroom that you'll share." Draco's silver eyes met Hermione's for a moment before both quickly looked away. "Follow me and I'll show them to you."

The old man crossed the room, passing beneath the archway, turning left into the short, narrow corridor. Candles lit the way, wax under long teardrop flames. Six large paintings were mounted, three to a wall on either side. The first was a large lion king, sitting on dry savannah grass. Next was a lovely portrait of the 18th century pureblood, Lady Barbara Brave. Across from her, to the left, a badger was digging furiously into dirt. To Lady Barbara's right, a boa constrictor coiled around the thick branch of a tree. Across it, at the far end, a raven was perched regally on a stone. Finally, between it and the badger was a portrait of the wizard poet Randolph Delphi.

"Lady Barbara, Mr. Delphi," the headmaster nodded to the paintings, coming to a halt somewhere just between them.

"Who do we have this year?" Randolph Delphi asked him, looking the Head Boy and Girl over interestedly.

"They don't happen to _snore_, do they?" the portrait of Lady Barbara put in with a condescending sniff. "That Head Boy from last year had snores as loud as a banshee's. I never got a wink of sleep!"

Dumbledore shook his head with an affectionate gaze. "I'll let them divulge their names and sleeping habits in their own time. Perhaps you'll give them a chance to settle in before you go snooping on that score."

"_Snoop_, you say_?_ Why, Albus, what a notion!" Lady Barbara exclaimed, bemused. "_I_ am a lady. I assure you, a lady _never_ snoops." The statement earned her knowing looks from both Dumbledore and Randolph Delphi.

The headmaster turned to his pupils. "You'll decide on the passwords to your individual rooms, as well," Dumbledore told them. "I trust that you can guess which ones are entrances, and for whom."

Hermione and Draco both looked to their respective house animals, she glancing at the lion to her right, he to the snake on his left.

"Well, I'll leave you to get situated. Sleep well." He began to leave, but paused. "Ah! I almost forgot. _These_—" he produced two keys, one silver, the other gold, "are for you. They each unlock doors with passages to your respective House common rooms." He handed Draco the shiny silver key, then passed Hermione the gold. "The doors are automatically locked on both sides, and only open for a few moments after the keys are used."

Draco regarded his key with baleful eyes; Hermione held hers in a loose, halfhearted grip.

"Well, if there's nothing else..." Dumbledore tapped a finger against his lips, furrowed his brows as if thinking hard. "I don't seem to remember anything that I've forgotten. Then again, if I've forgotten, I'd hardly remember what to remember," he reasoned. He spent the next few moments trying to solve the puzzle he'd created in his mind, his index finger flitting about as if tabulating numbers in the air. And then he threw his hands up. "Then again, it hardly matters. Both of you are very bright and I'm _sure_ you'll figure things out in your own way."

"I'm sure," Draco agreed dryly.

The old headmaster nodded. "Well then, that is that, and I suppose I'll say goodnight."

"Goodnight, professor," both students replied, not so much in sync as one atop the other.

With a nod, he turned to leave, this time making it almost all the way through the archway when he came to a halt once again. "Fiddlesticks and gobbledygook!" he exclaimed, exasperated with himself. "It appears that I forgot to remember something after all." Dumbledore stepped forward again. "To congratulate you," he filled in with a smile.

Both students frowned as he approached them with gleaming eyes. "Congratulations, Mr. Malfoy; congratulations, Miss Granger," he said meaningfully, shaking each of them by the hand. His fingers were knobby and wrinkled, but the handshake was firm and warm. The way his old eyes looked into theirs, it felt like he was seeing inside of them, to the secrets buried within. "I hope you enjoy your new dormitory," he said. "You've worked very hard to earn it."

The man couldn't know the chord that his words struck in each of them. Still, his last knowing smile said that he knew _something_… maybe something that they didn't.

They watched, frowning as he finally disappeared. And without glancing at each other, they went about finding their way into their bedrooms.

The lion waited regally as Hermione contemplated a password.

"_Cursum perficio_," she whispered numbly after a while.

_I finish my journey_...

The lion looked at her with troubled eyes. A moment passed before it nodded its head, its mane blowing in the invisible wind. The painting opened, allowing her inside, shutting again protectively before the blond-haired man could glance their way. But Draco was too occupied with thinking of what password _he _should choose to care.

"_Contra mundum_," he decided darkly, watching as the snake slithered its way tighter around the tree.

_Against the world_...

The reptile hissed with satisfied eyes before permitting its new master inside.

It wasn't as large as the rooms he'd slept in all the years before. Still, he hadn't expected it to be quite this big. Like the Slytherin dungeons, the place was decorated all in greens and grays. Across the room, the wall was veiled ceiling-to-floor by a thick velvet curtain; behind it, he would later find a window-wall of glass.

The four-poster bed was wide, much wider than the ones the House dormitories provided—but smaller, of course, than the one he had at home. Nightstands stood on either of its sides, already housing a fancy-faced clock and a small, hardcover book.

A sturdy black armoire was pressed into one corner. A cabinet with six drawers was against another wall. An old-fashioned writing desk and chair sat beside the entrance, it's roll top lowered, shielding its surface and shelves from view.

There were four doors in the room, one to each of the four walls: the door behind the portrait, through which he had just traveled; the white door to the bathroom in the wall to his right; in the wall across from that, the locked door that led back to the Dungeon; and in the clear wall, behind the curtain, a thick glass door that led to a balcony overlooking the loch.

Crossing the patterned carpet, he pulled the curtain back, opened that door and stepping out into the night.

Hermione was already there, her arms crossed over the stone parapet, her eyes staring out at the moon's reflection on the lake.

He thought of turning back, but for some reason didn't. Instead, he moved to the stone wall, as well, coming to stand a few feet away from her, letting silence settle between them.

The moon was full and seemed miles closer than usual. Its reflection rippled on the water's surface, making the gentle waves shine like light.

"Pretty, isn't it?" he heard her ask quietly after a while.

He turned his head, his silver eyes studying her profile. She was truly beautiful, he recognized, her dark curls reflecting moonlight, her gold-brown eyes haunting and bright. The realization was new and completely disconcerting.

He stayed silent, his brows furrowing.

Hermione didn't press for an answer, had never really expected one. Still looking out into the distance, she smiled, soft and faint.

"It seems like just yesterday, doesn't it Malfoy?" she asked after another long pause. Her voice was tinged with a sad sort of wistfulness.

Draco's frown deepened. "What does?" he asked finally, not understanding her, not understanding his need to.

"When we were young," she said quietly. "It seems like just yesterday, doesn't it?"

Draco's eyes were unreadable. Slowly, he crossed his arms. "I don't know what you're talking about," he returned, his voice serious. "I'm still young, Granger. We both are."

Her smile widened, saddened. "No," she said. "I grew up. And so did you." She turned her face, looked into his eyes. "We never really were young, Malfoy."

He didn't say anything, and she laughed, the sound light and humorless. She turned back to the view. "You know, I'll never understand…" she told him, shaking her head. "Why is it so easy for them?"

"For whom?" Draco asked, eyes narrowed.

She only shook her head. There was another pause. "Why is it we don't have a choice?"

He stiffened at the words, though they were no more than a whisper in the wind. "I don't know what you mean," he said, his voice dead. But it wasn't the truth. He knew what it meant to not have a choice… knew what it meant all too well…

"Yes you do," she somehow knew. She glanced at him again, haunted smile still in place. There was another, longer pause. "I used to hate you," she said then with a short, harsh sort of laugh. "I used to _despise_ you."

"You don't anymore." It wasn't a question. He had known, had somehow felt the change. And somehow his feelings had changed too, though he couldn't pinpoint how, or why, or even what they'd become.

"No. Not anymore," she confirmed. "People look at you and think they know what they see—the _dark side_… or the _bad guy_." Her gaze was lost on the horizon. "They don't understand that there are more than two sides, more than good or bad." She shrugged a shoulder, a small, weak move that was barely noticeable in the dark. "There's always more, isn't there?" she asked him, and in her voice were a thousand regrets. "There's always more," she confirmed so he wouldn't have to. She shook her head slowly. "I can't hate you for that."

Draco was silent. She seemed to understand _too_ well, he thought. Why had he never noticed before?

Hermione turned, slowly moving to go inside.

On impulse, he suddenly grabbed her wrist, halting her in place. She didn't fight, or wrench her arm away. Instead, she shut her eyes, smiling slightly at the sharp pain that shot through her arm as he gripped a stitched slash he couldn't feel or see.

Draco tightened his jaw against the smooth feel of her skin—watched the strange look as it fell across her face. He frowned, searching his mind for something, _something _to say. Searching for a way to return them to the freedom of indifference. Searching for a way to return them to the simplicity of hatred.

Slowly, he released her, carefully took a step away.

"Granger?" he asked skeptically.

She opened her eyes, met his. His grey gaze lowered from her chocolate-dark one... down to the place where his fingers had just been. "Don't expect anything different," he commanded finally, staring at her wrist, wondering...

Hermione seemed to watch him with knowing eyes. "Why would I?" she asked dully.

Draco nodded once, relieved. And then he began to walk inside.

"Malfoy," he heard her say. He stopped, but didn't turn.

"Don't expect anything at all..."

Draco frowned at the words and continued on his way.


	3. Dirty Blood

_Saving You—DMHG. Hermione Granger has a secret, one that's literally killing her. Who will come to her rescue? What if the only one who can is Draco Malfoy? Rated M for sexual content (including rape), suicide ideation, and violence._

_Disclaimer—Most of the characters and a lot of the setting belong to J.K. Rowling. The rest is mine._

A/N: Last updated Nov. 30, 2009

* * *

**:::Dirty Blood:::**

"Have you seen today's paper?" Harry asked his friends at breakfast.

A week had gone by, and the routine of life at school was already starting to sink in for everybody. Classes were in full throttle, homework was already piling up, and the start of quidditch season was only a few days away.

Hermione had picked up her usual habit of delving headfirst into study—a half-effective way of distracting herself from the memories, from the lies…

And from the truth.

"No," Ron said, munching on a scone. "Why? What's it say?"

Harry was frowning down at that morning's Daily Prophet. "Three rookie Aurors have gone missing," he answered, his eyes scanning the page. "Erin Green, Franko Pedrini, and Logan Brenner."

Ron swallowed, shrugged. "Not too unusual, I guess. It's risky work—especially if you're new at it." His eyes widened, then narrowed. "You don't think it has anything to do with…" He leaned in. "With _You-Know-Who_, do you?"

Harry scratched his neck. "Can't know for sure," he said quietly, pushing the black and white pages away and taking a bite out of his biscuit. He couldn't be sure of anything, not when Voldemort was out there somewhere, scheming, watching, waiting to strike. He wouldn't feel comfortable with anyone going missing, especially Aurors, not with the possibility of an attack looming all the time. No one was safe with that monster on the loose—not anyone, but especially not him.

He turned his gaze to Hermione. She was staring off again, obviously in a world far away from this one. "You okay, Mione?" he asked her. She didn't respond. "Mione?"

"Hm? Oh… sorry, what?"

Harry placed a gentle hand on her back. "You okay?" he asked again.

She nodded. "Fine," she told him. "Just… thinking."

Harry smiled dryly. "You always did do too much of that."

She heard the humor, braved a smile. It didn't reach her eyes.

"Come on," Ron said, standing from the table, dusting his hands together to rid them of stray crumbs. "We're about to be late for Potions. As usual."

* * *

_Don't expect anything different._

Draco had said the words. Why, then, was he dissatisfied when she so willingly carried them out? He walked into their common room and she immediately walked out of it. He went out onto the balcony and she moved back indoors. He passed her in the hallway, spotted her in classes, but she never so much as glanced his way. He saw more of her damn _cat_ than he actually did of _her_!

But that was what he'd wanted, right? To forget that strange interlude on the balcony, to go back to the silent indifference they'd always shared…

It should have been easy. Should have been comfortable. But it was neither. He told himself to leave her alone, to push her from his mind. But his eyes moved of their own accord, following her as she walked past him, watching until she disappeared from sight. His gaze was on _her_, _always _her, all the time: when she sat with her friends in the Great Hall, did her schoolwork in the library, read her books on her balcony chair.

And as he watched, he began to see her—really _see _her—for the first time. The outspoken know-all he'd had her pegged as couldn't have been more different from the truth. She was reserved now, almost withdrawn, as if her thoughts were somewhere else, on another plane of existence where only ghosts and spirits lived. The eager student was quiet and calm, her avidness softer now. The effervescence that had so annoyed him annoyed him _now_ because it was gone. And when he thought back, he couldn't remember the last time he had seen it. His boyhood perception of her was long outdated—if it had ever been true at all.

He told himself it didn't matter. When he saw her sad eyes, her tired expressions, he told himself he didn't care. When he realized she hadn't laughed in weeks, he told himself not to wonder why.

But he did wonder. And for some unknown reason he did care. All of a sudden it _did_ matter.

What was wrong with her?

He clenched his jaw, forced his eyes back to the front of the classroom. What was wrong with _him_?

"I have an announcement about the next few weeks that I hope will be met with the appropriate enthusiasm," Snape was saying to the class. "Because of the level of difficulty throughout the next few chapters, I have decided to permit you to work in teams of two." Excited murmurs broke out, people already eyeing the friends around them for prospective partners. "And I'm sure you'll all appreciate the extra trouble I've gone to in _assigning _you into your groups." He held up a piece of parchment, shook it, and smiled a small, secret smile as the class groaned in disappointment. If malevolent Snape had made the pairs, they were in for a _long_ couple of weeks.

"_Quiet_," Snape ordered, even as he smirked in satisfaction. "When I call your name you may _silently _assemble into the sets I have so carefully arranged." He held the list close to his face, his eyes slitting. "Potter and Parkinson. Clem and Finnegan. Brown and Lake. Weasley and Crabbe. Malfoy and Granger…"

Hermione sighed inwardly. Somehow she had known that they would be paired together.

Gathering her bag and books, she moved next to Draco, lowering to the seat beside him, as was required. She felt his grey eyes on her as she sat, but she didn't turn to meet them.

Draco hated the wave of satisfaction he felt when he heard Snape call out her name with his. Silently, he watched her as she gathered her things together and moved towards him. She sat, and his eyes stayed on her, maybe longer than they should have. She kept hers glued on Snape as he began to lecture in that low, dull voice of his.

"If you'll turn to page _31_ in your textbook, you'll see a list of ingredients, and a diagram of the order in which to combine them..."

Draco was barely listening. He couldn't focus on the class or the potion, not when the girl beside him was dominating his thoughts.

She seemed unaffected by him—a fact that both gratified and annoyed him. Her gaze was steady on the professor at the front of the class. Out of the corner of his eye, Draco could see her writing, could even hear the sound of her quill as it scraped ink onto her page. He could smell the clean, soft scent of her, like raindrops in the spring; could hear the sound of her breath as it sighed against her lips.

He willed himself to direct that focus onto Snape instead of _her_. He picked up his quill, held it to the parchment that lay before him. He wrote what he heard the professor say, but nothing he was taking down sank any deeper than that. He was too aware of Hermione Granger there beside him, of her gentle breath coming in and out, of her subtle fragrance, reaching him in waves.

"I want _detailed_ descriptions of all the possible side effects. And be warned that anything left out will earn you a lower mark," Snape finished as the class impatiently gathered their things.

Draco watched with narrowed eyes as Harry and Ron came to stand beside Hermione, waiting for her. Ron glared at him pointedly before speaking to his friend.

"You'll come to the Great Hall for your free period, won't you?" he asked her. "Sit with us a while…?"

Hermione nodded mutely as she slowly stacked her books, and both boys smiled. Was that relief Draco saw in their eyes? He was almost sure it was.

Ron's gaze moved back to Draco, turned hostile once again. "Why don't you take a picture? It'll last longer."

Draco smiled mockingly. "Looking at you for this length of time is hard enough as it is." Ron went sunburn-red, causing the blond-haired boy's smile to lengthen. "Now, if you'll excuse me..." He stood from his seat, pushed it back into the table. "I have other places to be."

"Then go be there," Ron returned hotly. "Or stay and get your teeth knocked in."

"Ron..." Harry warned, conscious of Hermione, who was still seated, her tired chin held up by the knuckles of one hand.

"I'd stay just to see you try." Draco's smile was cold and amused. "Unfortunately, I really do have a previous engagement. We'll have to test your alleged teeth-knocking skills some other time." He gathered his things, lowered slightly into a sarcastic bow. "Weasley. Potter." He nodded to each of them, and then glanced down at Hermione. She wasn't looking or even listening to the interaction. He didn't acknowledge her the way he had the others, just pulled his bag tighter over his shoulder and walked away.

"One of these days that rat bastard really _is _going to get his teeth knocked in," Ron fumed angrily as he watched Malfoy disappear. "God, Mione, I don't know _how _you can live with him!"

"What?" Hermione asked, awaking from her thoughts. "Oh..." She shrugged a shoulder. "I don't mind. We don't see that much of each other." Her soft brown eyes watched the now-empty doorway. "We don't want to," she added hauntedly to herself.

* * *

That night, Hermione found herself trapped in a shallow half-sleep, that black-eyed monster, memory, swarming in and taking hold.

_A familiar hand rubbing the blue silk of her nightgown. The feel of chubby fingers splaying over skin. Eyes, once reassuring, now bright with intent. A smile, once patient, now eager to press on... to press over... underneath... to press inside..._

_Dad, she asks uncertainly as he slips one thin strap off her shoulder. Dad, she says again when he makes no reply._

_His gaze alive, as if discovering something new. A line between his brows, as if he's not sure what he's found. He leans down, lays his lips against her cheek, chapped aridness meeting softness and warmth._

_Dad, she asks, not knowing what to say. Not knowing what to do—not knowing what was _being_ done._

She could feel herself tossing and turning beneath the sheets. She heard herself cry out, couldn't stop the sound. She knew she was dreaming again, knew she was remembering again, as she always did.

_What are you doing, she desperately wants to know. But she doesn't ask him, can't seem to voice the words._

_A familiar hand lifting the silk hem of her nightgown. The feel of dry fingers cupping the small mound over her heart. Eyes, once encouraging, looking everywhere but at her eyes. A smile, strangely gratified as it bites into her frown._

_Dad, she tries to say, but his wet tongue stops her from speaking. Dad, she wants to ask, but he's pushing her, pinning her down._

There was moisture at her eyes, at her throat, at her abdomen, the sweat and tears dampening the sheets and drenching her skin. She was aware of the bed and the pillows, aware that they weren't the hard couch cushions of the past. There was no one on top of her. She was fighting air, imagination.

_He quickly pulls down his zipper. The sound reaches her ears like thunder. His body over hers, like dead weight... She can't move, can't breathe, can't speak, can't think._

_Dad, she cries when she feels his rough hands between their bodies. Dad, she wants to scream as she feels him tear through her like a knife._

_And then the confusion, plunging like a dagger, in and out... in and out of her. Confusion, spreading over her thighs, red and warm and wet. Confusion, leaking from her eyes, leaving trails down her face. Confusion, spilling into her stomach, causing violent nausea to churn._

_Tears turning to stars that flash before her eyes. The feeling that life will never be the same._

_And just as he pulls out of her, the world all around goes black.

* * *

_

As the eleven-year-old Hermione fainted, the seventeen-year-old one jolted awake.

Her breath was rushing in and out. Her heart was thumping erratically inside her chest. The sheets around her had been kicked to the side, the pillows somehow thrown from the bed. Pushing herself upright, she brought a shaking hand to her face. She shut her eyes tight, tears squeezing through the lids and rolling down her cheeks.

But it only took a few seconds for the confusion to subside, for the lack of feeling to come again. The tears dried quickly, leaving no evidence that they'd been there to begin with. Her breathing calmed, her heartbeat settled, returning to the slow, methodic drumming of before. Her hand steadied, and once it was still, she brought it away from her face.

She turned her tired gaze to the blood red curtain that hid the balcony from her view. Slowly, she rose from the bed, pulling the rope that swept the long drape to one side. Through the window, midnight stars were still visible in the dark dawn sky. She could hear the wind whip against the glass, and longed suddenly to feel the sting for herself.

She silently crossed the room, opened the door. Though she was barefoot and clad in nothing but a nightgown, she stepped outside. The morning air was brisk as it brushed against her damp body. She moved across the narrow expanse of the platform to the parapet on the other side; she rested her flat palms on the wall's surface, and the cool stones, dusted in dew, moistened her dry skin.

Far below her, the jagged cliffs stood like uneven steps, rocky levels ending in a vertical drop to the cold waters of the lagoon. For a moment, she stared straight down to where the waves crashed against steep rock wall. It was a long way down, she thought to herself. A long, _long_ way down…

On a sigh, she moved away, lowered to the wooden patio chair. Curling her knees up to her chest, hugging them to her, she closed her eyes.

She hadn't always been vacant. She hadn't always been numb… dead. And the changes hadn't been sudden, or altogether unexpected. No, the dying had been slow, her soul diminished piece by piece, night by night, year by painful year. In the beginning, she had felt it all—the confusion, more than anything; the agony; the fear. She couldn't feel it now, but, oh, she could remember it…

That first time he had pierced into her, stealing her virginity away. The warm feel of blood as it had spread over her legs. The cool feel of tears as they had fallen from her chin. The pain of his hips as they had smacked hard against hers. The feel of his heavy body as it had pulsed over and into her. The way she'd felt so sick inside just before she'd lost consciousness…

And how she'd woken up alone on sofa, the hem of her nightgown up over breasts. How she'd seen, for the first time, the red staining her thighs, soaking delicate drops into the couch cushion beneath her. And how she'd had to stand and walk through the agony burning in her womb... up the stairs... down the hallway... to the shower where cold water had washed her clean.

And how she'd prayed—_God_, how she'd prayed—that it had all been some sort of dream. That it had been some sort of mistake. That she could go back to before, when the world had made sense, back to when life had been simple, and everything had had its place. Back to before, to the man she had known, the father she'd loved and _trusted_. The father that had loved her, too...

Back to before she'd become a witch.

Hermione sighed, the sound disappearing with the wind. Over time, all of that had died away inside of her, leaving nothing but exhaustion. No more hopes or wishes. No more grief for what had been, or what would never be.

And she hated it. How she wished she could _feel _again, even if it was pain, even if it was fear. But she had turned herself off, so often and for so long, that she'd forgotten how to turn back on again. At first, she hadn't known she might lose control of her detachment, hadn't known that she might become consumed by it, become trapped in it forever. The broken girl hadn't foreseen that in protecting her soul, in shielding it, she was letting it weaken and wither away. She hadn't known that she was killing it... that somehow it could die.

Now it was too late.

* * *

Draco hadn't slept. He never did. Restlessness was an insect inside of him, crawling through his body and brain, making it impossible to relax.

He told himself he didn't mind, that he wasn't tired. Why waste time sleeping? His days as a free man were numbered. Any moment could be his last. His fate—or, rather, his doom—was waiting somewhere right around the corner.

The gentle click of a door shutting interrupted his thoughts. His head turned sharply, looking through the uncovered glass. A shadowed figure was briefly visible through the darkness, before sitting, disappearing from his line of sight.

He looked at the clock, and then back out to the balcony.

Hermione Granger. The mysterious girl with secrets in her eyes. The girl he'd always seen, but never noticed. The girl he'd always hated, but never known. _She_ was the other subject that occupied his mind, the other sure-doom that was plaguing his thoughts and haunting his nights.

And he wasn't sure which nightmare he would rather think about.

Frustrated with himself, Draco stood from his bed to pull the veil closed. He tugged the rope hard, forcing the forest green curtain to cover the wall in one fell swoop. God forbid he see her again—God forbid _she _see _him_.

But when he should have returned to his bed, his narrowed eyes moved to the door. Impulsively, he stepped towards it, some supernatural urge guiding him forward. His arm stretched out of its own volition, his hand reaching for the knob.

He snapped it back just before his fingers touched the silver handle. "What are you _doing_, Malfoy?" he berated himself, turning sharply, beginning to pace back and forth between the bed.

He had told her not to expect anything different. It was easy enough for her. So why in the _bloody hell _was it so _damned_ difficult for _him_? They had spent the last _seven years_ staying out of each other's way. He had never thought twice about it, or about her. How had things changed so suddenly, so drastically?

Draco turned back, looking warily at the door. Don't go out there, a little voice told him, but the decision was already made. Slowly, purposefully, he moved back towards the door. With a clenched jaw, he reached out and took the handle, twisting it. He pushed the door open and stepped over the threshold, silently daring his conscience to argue.

Hermione was curled up in a chair, knees to chest, chin to knees. The cold wind was blowing her dark curls around her, and her porcelain skin was bared, tinted blue with moonlight.

She didn't look up, didn't even hear him approach. Her eyes were closed, her mind lost in memory.

"You're up early."

Hermione's eyes parted, the deep brown shining through the darkness. She didn't seem startled, or even surprised by his presence, but serene, deadly calm as she met his skeptical steel gaze.

"I'm sorry if I woke you," she apologized tiredly. The breeze forced a few stray locks across her face, and she tucked them safely behind her ear.

Draco rested an elbow on the parapet, leaning against it. "You didn't," he told her honestly. He watched as she uncurled herself, letting her feet come back to the floor.

A thick silence lapsed between them, and she turned her eyes to the rippling waters of the lake.

His stayed on her. "Don't you sleep, Granger?" he asked, tilting his head.

Hermione smiled lightly out at the scenery. "Sometimes," she answered quietly, cryptically, after a moment. She turned her eyes to his. "What about you?" she asked at long last. "Does the infamous Slytherin Prince have trouble sleeping?"

Her smile widened when he didn't answer. She turned her eyes back out to the lake.

There was silence.

"Why did you come here, Malfoy?" she asked finally, warily.

"I didn't know you owned the balcony, Granger," he returned. The words weren't fueled by heat or sarcasm, but they weren't playful, either. If she had been anyone else, they might have been. "Do I need a reason?" he asked then, frowning.

"No," she whispered. "But you have one."

Draco's eyes narrowed. She was right. He had a reason, though what it was he himself hadn't fully grasped yet. It had to do with _her_, with the mysteriousness, the beauty that he was only now starting to perceive. It had to do with this new awareness of her, of her tired eyes and humorless smiles. It had to do with this strange and unwanted need to find out what was wrong, to fix whatever it was.

"I'm curious," he admitted over the wind. The words were an understatement, but not a lie.

Hermione nodded. She had already known, had sensed the new dynamic. She had done her best to avoid it, and him. If anyone could uncover her secrets, she had a feeling it was Draco Malfoy. And she couldn't let him, couldn't let _anyone_ find out the truth.

"Do you have plans for Christmas, Malfoy?" she asked quietly, changing the subject to something that was safer for them both.

He knew what she was doing, but didn't fight it. "Going back to the manor," he told her dully. He looked down at the cliffs, at the water raging against their stone bases. In all likeliness, he would be a Death Eater by Christmas. He shrugged, and when he spoke again, it was through clenched teeth. "I don't really have—"

"A choice?" she finished wistfully.

Draco turned, brow raised. "What are you doing for Christmas, Granger?" he asked her.

"Going home, too," she told him, her voice as dead as his had been. The reminder had sickness twisting in the pit of her stomach, but the feeling was brief, leaving that much-hated nothingness behind. Restless with it, she stood.

Draco watched, swallowing at the sight of her. He hadn't seen what she'd been wearing before; now, he couldn't see anything else. The cream silk nightgown was by no means revealing. On the contrary, it hid most of her from view. The delicate cap sleeves covered her small shoulders in lace. The sweetheart neckline wasn't low, but it exposed her ivory skin to the moonlight, revealing her feminine collarbones and the gentle hint of cleavage. A fitted bodice hugged her form to mid-waist, and then gave way to a long, flowing skirt that floated over her hips and down to her feet, hiding her long, perfect legs from his view.

She was beautiful.

But she seemed thinner than he remembered. Much thinner.

"Going back in?" he asked, unable to pull his eyes away from her.

Hermione nodded, crossing her arms, protecting herself from his assessing gaze as much as from the cold night air. Slowly, she began to move towards the door.

He wanted to stop her, but didn't have a reason. "Goodnight, then," he said to her back, before turning towards his own door.

"Malfoy."

He stopped at the sound of her voice, turned. She had paused in front of her door, her eyes waiting to lock with is.

"Don't waste your time being curious about me," she told him seriously. "I'm not the mystery you think I am. There's nothing to figure out." She shook her head so that her long curls slowly swayed. "You'll only end up finding what you've known all along."

"And what's that?"

She smiled faintly. "That I'm not worth your attention."

Draco's eyes narrowed speculatively. The girl he remembered from years ago would have bitten and clawed her way out when threatened. She'd been a spitfire once—and a thorn in his side because of it. But the solemn version before him wasn't up for biting or clawing. Instead, she was wisely trying to deflect. It was a different, subtler tactic, but a tactic all the same; he saw through it to the fear, just like he'd seen through her bravado years before. Just like back then, she was trying to drive him away—and, just like back then, she'd only succeeded in drawing him in.

"There's always more, isn't there?" he asked, his eyes considering her, his voice low.

Hermione closed her eyes against the familiar words. The smile faded further from her face, replaced with grim patience. Slowly, wearily, she turned and went in.

* * *

He was curious, he had said. Curious about her, about her thoughts, about her life. He was interested in her, in the puzzle he thought she was, in the mystery he perceived her to be. He didn't understand that there was nothing to figure out, no great mystery to solve. There was nothing there, nothing left. _Nothing at all_.

The dishonesty was building up inside of her, filling her with lies. Magic tricks were all she had. All she was. She had thought that coming back to school would cure her of her emptiness, if only a little. But it had only made things worse. At least at home she didn't have to hide. She didn't have to lie, to pretend. Not to her father. Not to herself.

Hermione could only bear the intense racing of her thoughts and the silent vacancy of her soul for a few minutes before she had to act. Grabbing her wand, she walked to the bathroom, shutting the door behind her.

The first time she had stepped inside she had marveled at its size. It was grand, even with the accordion partition that cut the room in half when closed. A heated bath, the size of a large hot tub, was built into the ground on one side; the one-stall shower, sink, and toilet sat on the other. Like the bedrooms it connected together, the lavatory was built for royalty. It was large, regal, and elaborate—not at all fitting for someone like Hermione, for the nothing that she was.

She moved to the sink, letting her wand rest on it. Slowly, silently, she began to undress, pulling her nightgown over her shoulders and pushing her underwear down her legs until they lay together in a pile, forgotten on the floor.

She examined her reflection in the mirror with scrutinizing eyes. Her skin was perfect, as pretty as the sunset or the reflection of the moon on the face of the lake.

_Nothing is ever as perfect as it seems…_

The rest of the world couldn't see the scars that rested beneath the spells, beneath the lies. No one knew. No one but her.

She lifted a hand, rubbed her neck, where underneath the magic her ugly, scalded skin still faintly burned. It _looked_ unscathed, _felt_ smooth to the touch. It was enough to fool the others, but never herself. The scars—and the truth—were never really gone.

Hermione turned, studying the profile of her face and body. She had grown thin, her skin clinging to her bones, making them appear frail. Thank God no one noticed.

Thank God no one cared.

Hermione picked up her wand from the sink's ledge, squeezed it tightly in her hand. "_Fervefacio_," she whispered, and the wood's tip turned red with light, began to steam. Watching her reflection, she dragged the boiling hot edge across her skin, first along her neck, then moving down her chest, drawing circles on her stomach. The heat left a thin, winding trail across her body, the skin raising and burning cruelly at the wand's abuse.

She lifted her hand, let the hot tip brush a line down one cheekbone. A small smile of secret pleasure tilted her lips at the harsh pain. She could _feel_. The pulsing agony down her throat, across her breasts, along her abdomen meant that she could still feel. She was still alive. In that moment, it was all she could understand, all she _wanted_ to understand.

_Why is it we don't have a choice?_

Time passed, though how much she couldn't say. The wand's heat had dissipated, leaving only dim light and dull warmth.

Her skin was faultless, except for the nasty line that rose above the perfection, marring it.

Nothing lasts forever. She wasn't beautiful, not really. _He _had shown her that.

The pain was numbing out before she wanted it to. Desperate to keep hurting, to keep _feeling_, she moved to the bath. Without bothering to close the partition, she slid inside. The scented water was warm and stung the long and winding burn. She swam, letting the liquid cool the throbbing, letting it soothe with a new, calmer sort of ache.

She wasn't hiding right now. She wasn't lying right now. For just a while, she could be honest. For just a while, she could be clean.

When her body was too tired too continue, she noiselessly pushed herself up out of the water. Stepping silently, dripping onto the tiles, she walked back to the mirror, looked back into the haunted eyes of her reflection. She picked up her wand from its place on the ledge. Pushing her wet curls away from her eyes, she rested the tip against her face, where the new vicious line slashed down one cheek.

"_Tego_," she whispered. She watched as, with some effort, the line faded, smoothing into perfection. She did the rest, concealing the thin trail of scarring across her body, letting it disappear behind the spell with the rest of them.

Quietly, she retrieved her clothes from their pile on the floor. Still sopping, she slipped them on, not minding when the silk absorbed the water, soaking the material completely. Not minding as it rubbed against the concealed wounds, causing the last sweet tinge of pain. She looked one last time into the mirror, gazing into the blank brown eyes that met hers. She smiled sadly, bringing a hand to her face, tenderly touching the place where the scar had been only moments before.

_Beautiful…_

Draco entered as she exited, but Hermione didn't turn, not when she heard his door click open, not even when she felt his eyes on her back. She slowly closed the door behind her, leaving him to his privacy and leaving her to her own.

* * *

The Halloween Dance already had excitement swirling around the hallways of Hogwarts. Some people were already planning their costumes, and everyone was going on about it, philosophizing about how the student officials would decorate this year and what live band they would get to perform…

And although she was supposed to be beginning to thinking about planning it all, the dance was the farthest thing from Hermione's mind. Which was why she was completely caught off-guard when someone asked her to be his date.

It happened on her way to Gryffindor Tower.

"Hey—Hermione!" she heard a deep voice call from behind her.

She turned. It was Brandon Madison, a Ravenclaw boy she'd gotten to know while sharing Prefect duties together the past few years. He was tall and built, handsome in an old-fashioned way. Dark wavy hair fell over his ears and hazel eyes. His arms were strong from years of avid quidditch, but they seemed gentle and unthreatening, like they'd never raise to a woman with anything less than pure intentions. He had the aura of a true gentleman, with a friendly gaze and a deep, smooth voice that could melt a young girl's heart if she let it.

Intelligent, responsible, and consistent, he'd been the most obvious choice for Head Boy—but somehow the infamously intelligent, _irr_esponsible, and _in_consistent Malfoy had snagged the spot. The professors must have made their decision based purely on classroom performance and marks, where Malfoy's genius and effortless skill undisputedly reigned supreme. If they'd taken _conduct_ into account, surely the reliable and rule-following Brandon would have been the safest bet.

Hermione waited for him to reach her. "Hi."

"Hi," he said again when he was in front of her. "I'm sorry I haven't gotten around to saying my helloes before now. Or to congratulating you for getting Head Girl."

"It's alright," Hermione assured him with a quiet smile. "Everyone's been so busy. I didn't take it personally."

"Good," he replied warmly.

Hermione paused, peering at him carefully. "And… I'm sorry about Head Boy," she dared to add quietly. "I know how hard you worked…"

"No matter," the Prefect said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "No one can touch Malfoy academically, except for you. I know he's the more exemplary student." His warm smile turned thin and dry. "I just thought they'd see I'm the more exemplary human being." He laughed under his breath, a little bit bitter. "It's rather humorous, actually," he went on, shaking his head. "Dumbledore's left his school rules in the hands of the one bloke who's most notorious for breaking them."

Hermione smiled ruefully. "I'm sure he had his reasons."

Brandon shrugged. "I certainly hope so." There was a pause. He scratched his neck, a bit awkward. "So... about the Halloween Dance. I know it's a ways off, but…"

"I know, I know. We need to start planning," Hermione sighed dutifully. "I'll arrange a Prefects meeting. We'll start tossing around ideas."

"Grand—only, that's not why I was asking…" He cleared his throat. He met her gaze, his dark eyes smiling into hers. "I was actually sort of wondering if you were going with anyone."

Hermione froze. "Oh." She looked down, broke their gazes, cautiously looked back up. "I… haven't been asked," she answered finally.

Brandon smiled charmingly, obviously relieved. "In that case, I wondered if maybe you'd like to go with me," he offered. His smile was easy, but a twinge of nerves showed through. His unassuming air made him seem even more the gentleman.

There was a silence and then, "Yes." Hermione smiled, or tried to. "Of course."

Brandon nodded, his smile widening. "Brilliant. Okay. So I guess we have time to figure out the details."

"We have time," she agreed quietly.

"Great. Perfect. So I'll see you when I see you? In class—or maybe that Prefects meeting," he suggested, backing away.

She nodded, conscious of the way he was smiling from ear to ear. "I'll see you," she confirmed.

Whatever smile she may have pasted on evaporated the moment he was gone. Needing release, she abandoned her plans to join Harry and Ron, hurrying to her own dormitory instead. Brandon Madison believed the lie. He thought she was something she wasn't. He thought she was real…

_Beautiful...

* * *

_

"I've been thinking about our costumes for the Halloween Dance. I want make sure we get a head start, before all the good ideas are thought up by somebody else. The first thing that popped into my head was a cat and mouse—you would be the cat, of course, and I would be the mouse. But then I remembered Surrey and Cyrano went together as something like that a while back. And it would hardly be right to go as animals, anyway. Wouldn't want to lower ourselves to that, not even for fun..."

If Draco had thought quidditch practice had been draining, he had definitely forgotten what it was like to listen to Pansy. Like many of her friends, she had to come to watch the Slytherins' preseason scrimmages, her eyes on their captain, always intense and possessive. As was her routine, she attached to him the minute he stepped off the field, beginning her eternal, infernal _talking_.

"I think a celebrity couple would be more fitting. A powerful, pure couple, naturally—none of the _common_ sort. But then, I'm not sure. What do you think?"

Draco rubbed sweat from his forehead, tightened his grip on his broom. "I think you seem to have forgotten that we never dress to match," he said through gritted teeth.

Pansy drew him to a halt, came to stand a breath away from him. "I was hoping this year I might find some way to get you to reconsider," she told him huskily, looking up at him through her long, mascara-coated lashes.

"The decision is final," he informed her tightly.

Pansy pouted, trying to tempt him with those dark, puppy-dog eyes—eyes that would have broken any man but him. "But, Draco," she reasoned, "everyone else is going to match."

"Not us," he assured her, nodding at two Slytherin boys that walked by them. He looked back at her. "If you need to match costumes so bad, you can get some other bloke to take you. I know several other chits who'd be more than happy to take your place." Those silver eyes were arrogant as they glared impatiently at hers. "And I'm sure not _one_ of them would find a reason to complain."

"I'm not afraid of you the way they are," Pansy replied with an easy smile. "I'm more than comfortable with speaking my mind." And then her smile tightened. "I know I'm better than your whores. Which is why I demand more from you than the _scraps_ you give to them."

"You've been demanding things for years," Draco reminded her coldly. "I'm afraid you'll have to keep waiting."

"Another thing I'm more than comfortable with doing," she informed him pleasantly. "I know how to be patient—as long as I'm assured it's my finger that gets the ring in the end." Her smile became a knowing smirk, one meant to remind him of their inevitable future. "Well I'm off," she went on after a while, casually filling the tense silence she'd created. "McGonagall gave me detention, and it appears that I'm already late." She reached onto her toes and kissed his cheek, laughing lightly at his lack of response, more than used to it by now. "Go take a shower," she commanded playfully. "I'll see you later."

Draco nodded curtly, turning away even before she did and heading to his dormitory.

The common room was silent, with no sign of Hermione Granger in sight. It had been days since their midnight encounter on the balcony, and much like their first strange interlude, it was being treated as if it had never happened to begin with. Draco told himself he was relieved, but he knew deep down that he wasn't.

"_Contra mundum_," he said to the snake portrait, and it swung open for him. Tossing his broom down onto his bed, he headed for the bathroom. He knocked on the door, waiting a few moments before throwing it open. He moved into the room, already shedding his quidditch robes and letting them fall to the ground.

It was only then that his gaze happened to find another pile of clothes sitting not too far from where he had begun to drop his own. With a furrowed brow, he stepped to them. It was a school uniform: a girl's skirt, a button-up shirt, a dark grey sweater... small cotton panties and a nude-colored bra. Granger had left them there, Draco realized.

He should have been irritated with his roommate for not picking up after herself. Instead, he was irritated with _himself_. Because all his brain could process were visions of Hermione Granger slowly undressing, letting her clothing fall to the tiles, her every movement drenched in silent allure. Involuntarily, he remembered her porcelain skin bathed in moonlight, the small swell of breasts covered so carefully by silk. He remembered the long curls running over her shoulders, cascading down her back, soft smooth strands that begged to have hands run through. And deep, dark eyes with that faraway look, silently asking for someone to bring back the sun.

_Beautiful…_

He swallowed and turned from the pile, taking a moment, shaking his head to erase the thoughts from his mind. He didn't want to remember.

Draco moved towards the sink, pulling his shirt over his head, letting it drop to the floor.

And then he saw it. Dark and red, he knew immediately what it was. Anyone would.

"What the…?"

The puddle was small, smaller than a sand dollar on a beach, but it had Draco's heart stopping fast in his chest. Clenching his jaw, trying to keep his cool, he quickly looked around. A wand was discarded in the sink, large droplets of blood around it. Tiny splatters stained the tiles, trailing around the pool. He breathed—inhale, exhale… inhale, exhale—even as his mind swirled into double-time.

"Granger?" instinct had him calling through his teeth, his tense voice only holding a little of the urgency that was churning inside. His eyes searched the emptiness of the room, looking for any sign of where the red liquid had come from. "Granger, are you in here?"

_Silence.

* * *

_

Blood was running down her naked arm, smooth and warm and all-consuming. This was the release she'd needed, a cool purging of the pollutant that ran through her veins. She watched as it pressed out of her, moving over her skin and dripping onto the floor, ridding her of some of the guilt...

_And she was clean. She could start tomorrow clean…_

Hermione was jolted from the trance of pleasure-pain at the brisk knocking sound. Instinct had her gripping her wand tight. "_Evanui_," she whispered shakily, watching the doorknob turn with wide eyes. Invisibility fell over her body, and she disappeared just as the door pushed open with a start.

She held her breath as Malfoy appeared in the doorway. He was absently stripping, dropping his green quidditch robes to the floor. Carefully, quietly, she placed her wand in the sink, praying to God that he wouldn't notice. She felt blood stream down her arm, dropping into visibility on the porcelain ledge, adding to the bit of it already pooling on the tiles.

She looked warily back to Draco. He had discovered her clothes, was staring down at them, his jaw clenched tight. She began to back away, slowly, silently, hoping he wouldn't notice the trail of red droplets following her past the half-open partition and around the steaming pool.

He turned sharply, faced her, and she stopped suddenly, afraid he had found her out. Instead, he was still. There was a strange look on his face, almost as if his thoughts pained him. She had grown so used to the Malfoy made of stone, that it was odd witnessing emotion there for the first time.

He shook his head and began to step forward, pulling his shirt over his head. Would he strip completely, she wondered, swallowing. The light flutter in her stomach was undeniable, but it was quickly swiped away, replaced by sickness as she watched him discover the tiny puddle of liquid on the floor, and then the wand she'd abandoned in the sink.

"What the…?"

Draco's head moved around the room, his eyes searching. They scanned right past her, right through her, and for a silent second Hermione was sure they had connected with hers.

"Granger?" he called. "Granger, are you in here?"

_Silence._

"Granger, speak to me. Are you in here?" Draco struggled to keep the panic out of his voice. He tried even harder to conceal the worry. Realizing that it was no use, that she wasn't there, he rushed from the bathroom, quickly throwing his shirt back over his head as he went.

Hermione used her time quickly. She hurried to the sink, grabbed her wand up into her grasp. With a few whispered words, the deep slashes along her arm were sewn and concealed. Her eyes moved to the red that stained the white sink and floor. Dirty blood, she thought sadly, pointing her wand at it, cleaning it with a word. Not wasting any time, she rushed to her pile of clothes at the edge of the room, bent to pick it up.

"Are you sure?" she heard a rough voice ask loudly. She ran to the door, clothes in hand, pulling the heavy thing open and then quickly shutting it behind her. Breathing hard, she slid to the ground, her head spinning with the loss of blood, her body exhausted from the hurry.

"What are you playing at, boy?" she heard Filch's familiar voice say through the door. "There is _no blood_!"

Draco frowned at the floor, contemplating. No—there wasn't. Someone had cleaned it up. And Hermione's wand and clothes were mysteriously missing, as well.

What had gone on here? And who was trying to cover it up?

He looked at Hermione's door, clenched his jaw. _There's always more, isn't there?_

"What is this, Draco?" Snape asked with skeptical eyes.

Draco said nothing, only gritted his teeth and shook his head.

"This is the worst sort of prank, Malfoy," Filch spat. "And a waste of mine and the good professor's time. Ten points from Slytherin for your childishness."

"You're right, sir," Draco said, his eyes narrowed at Hermione's door. "I won't pull anything like this again."

Filch nodded his approval. "See that you don't." And then he was gone, grumpily muttering profanities as he went.

But Snape wasn't as quick to dismiss the event. He looked between his favorite pupil and Hermione Granger's door, trying to discern what exactly had gone on. "Is... everything alright?" he asked the younger man.

A moment passed. Draco tore his gaze away from the door, forced a smile. "I'm sorry, professor," he said. "I don't know what I was thinking."

"I don't know, either," Snape returned cautiously. He glanced to the Head Girl's door, then back again. A pause. "Do I need to stay?" he asked seriously.

Draco shook his head. "No."

Snape nodded once. "I hope you'll earn back the points you've lost our House here today," he said after another pause.

"Of course," the Head Boy replied obediently.

Snape nodded again. "Good. I'll see you in my classroom." With one last skeptical look at Hermione's door, the professor slowly turned and let himself out.

As soon as the older man was out of sight and earshot, Draco moved forward. "Granger!" he called, banging on her door, fighting back fury and confusion. "Granger, I know you're in there. Open the door!"

Hermione had somehow known there would be a confrontation. With closed eyes, she blindly felt the around her for her clothing. She let Draco pound at the door as she tiredly pieced herself back together, pulling the sweater over her head, drawing the skirt over her legs. She stood, inhaling deeply—taking hold of the doorframe when she felt herself begin to collapse.

"Granger—"

She appeared in place of the door, and Draco had to pull his hand back just as it was about to collide with her face.

Hermione didn't even flinch.

He frowned, his gaze assessing her. "Granger," he repeated, looking her over skeptically. "Why didn't you answer?"

It took a moment for her to respond. "I was asleep," she told him finally.

Draco's eyes narrowed. It could be true. She looked exhausted, though he wasn't sure from what. Her eyes were hooded as they looked up at him, drooping drowsily, as if she was having trouble staying awake. She clung to the doorframe, as if she needed it to keep her balance. For a moment, it almost seemed as if she had been drugged.

"Are you hurt," he asked her, his voice low, his eyes looking her over for signs of pain.

Hermione would have smiled, but her lips were too tired to turn up.

_Yes, I'm hurt, Draco. It's my heart that's hurt._ "No, Malfoy," she answered dutifully, her voice coming out as the barest of whispers.

Draco wasn't convinced. In fact, her sickly demeanor only disturbed him further. What had happened? What was she hiding?

"Come in here," he commanded quietly, backing up.

Hermione took a breath, silently begging her legs to hold her. She stepped forward, holding a hand to the throbbing in her head. "What?" she asked him warily.

"There was blood, Granger," he told her seriously. "Here," he pointed to the ground, "and on the sink. There were drops of it around the bath." He watched for her reaction, but she didn't respond, not with denials or explanations, not even with surprise. Her face was blank, fatigue the only thing showing through her eyes. "And _your _clothes," he added deliberately when she said nothing. "And _your_ wand."

"What are you talking about, Malfoy?" she asked him on a sigh.

"You tell me," he demanded. She shrugged a weak shoulder, the only denial she could provide. "Blood doesn't come out of thin air, Granger," he insisted. His smoke-grey eyes looked into hers, trying to find a way to the answers. There was a wall there, much like the one he'd been forced to build inside of himself. Like the one he was struggling to keep up this very moment. "What happened, Granger?" he asked her quietly.

Hermione ran a shaky hand through her chocolate curls. The movement made her appear fragile, and the masculine need to protect was instantaneous. His voice gentled, but he didn't step forward. There needed to be distance.

"Whose blood was it?" he asked, staying firm.

She kept her eyes locked with his. Was that concern she saw in their silver depths? The thought caused a newer sickness inside of her, leaving her again with the hated emptiness.

_Draco Malfoy _concerned about _Hermione Granger_? The _mudblood_? It was laughable. It was _impossible_!

She felt the edges of her vision begin to cloud, felt her legs grow tired of holding her up. She must have lost more blood than she'd realized. She'd always been so careful…

"Granger?" Draco asked doubtfully, seeing the change. He didn't know what was wrong, didn't know what to do, what to ask...

"I'm tired, Malfoy," she whispered, defeated, leaning against the sink. "It's been a long day, and I just… want to rest."

Draco was torn between gathering her close and shaking the answers he wanted out of her. Instead, he did neither, staying where he was. "Whose blood was it," he asked again, keeping the pleading out of his voice.

Hermione rubbed her eyes with a careful hand. "What is it you're after?" she asked him, feeling her heartbeat in her temple. "I've never mattered to you. I've never been a priority to you—or anything close to that." She looked at him with broken eyes. "I'm not some problem or puzzle that needs to be solved, Malfoy. I'm not another one your games."

"I never said you were."

She watched him warily. "Then what do you want?"

_Understanding… Someone to hold on to_... "I don't want anything from you, Granger," he told her seriously. _I don't want to think about you… don't want to worry about you anymore…_

She nodded, the movement slow, almost undetectable. "Then let it rest," she pleaded quietly. "Let _me _rest."

_Don't expect anything at all…_

Draco was still, not comfortable with leaving her, not comfortable with staying. But after one long moment, he made his choice, nodding, turning, and walking from the room without another word.

Once the door had clicked shut behind him, Hermione let herself collapse silently onto the cool floor. She would feel better soon. Or, at least, she would pretend to.

* * *

Night fell, bringing a clear, starry sky over Hogwarts Castle. Students were flooding into the Great Hall for dinner, their hands holding, their arms linked with the arms of their friends. Bodies all crammed to fit at their House tables, all reached over one another to grab the food plate of their choice.

When Draco came through the high arch doors, however, he didn't move to the Slytherin table. Hands in his pant pockets, he waited on one side of entrance, his back resting against the wall. People were pulsing in and out of the room, walking by him, not sparing him a glance. He was like a shadow, dark and distant, as he watched the hall with his cool steel eyes.

_Granger_ had been all he'd been able to think about since their disconcerting encounter some hours before. The images were imprinted in the back of his mind: her discarded wand in the bathroom sink; that pile of her clothing lying on the tiled floor—the small, but very _real_ pool of blood beside it. The way her eyes had warily watched him; the way she'd wearily held herself up. Her soft, slow, halfhearted denials… they were all he'd been able to think about, all he'd been able to _care _about.

His eyes scanned the Gryffindor table, finding her of their own accord. She was sitting beside Ginny Weasley, patiently listening to the girl's chatter, her lips turned up into that tired, faded smile. The older Weasley was on her other side, laughing about something with Longbottom—but he kept an absent arm around her shoulder, instinctually protective.

Draco only allowed himself to watch her for a moment before clenching his jaw and forcing his eyes away.

_What do you want_, she had asked him. The answer was simple.

He wanted to _forget_ about Hermione Granger.

So he would do what he always did when he needed a distraction. He would find another girl to occupy his mind.

His gaze moved to the Slytherin table. Pansy caught his eye, summoned him with an expectant wave of her hand. But his cool eyes scanned over her, searching for something—some_one_—more amusing.

The options were boundless: blonde, brunette, short, tall. Draco Malfoy wasn't like the other boys in this school, who were only limited to the girls in their House, or in their year. He could have any girl he wanted.

Any girl but Hermione Granger.

His teeth ground together. He _didn't _want her. He would not—_could not_—think about _her_.

His grey eyes surveyed the Great Hall, running up and down the rows in search of someone to entertain him. A girl at the Hufflepuff table met his gaze with her inviting one. He raised one cool brow at her before letting his eyes travel away. A beautiful girl at the far end of the Ravenclaw bench caught his attention, but she appeared to have a boyfriend sitting at her side. It wouldn't ordinarily deter him, but today he didn't feel like putting in the work. He let his gaze move on, aloofly analyzing faces and bodies, expertly discerning which fruits were ripe for reaping and which fruits to leave on the vine.

"Like a wolf watching its prey," a woman's voice observed from beside him.

A slow, satisfied smirk spread at the familiar tone. He slowly shifted against the wall, turning to face the sound.

Draco had first noticed the beautiful Greta Berg at the beginning of his sixth year. Being a year above her in school, they had never shared any classes, and she, being a Ravenclaw, didn't socialize in his circles. But a chance encounter a year ago had put her on his radar—and it hadn't been hard or taken long to take the harmless flirtation all the way.

Greta, by no means an innocent flower, shared his abhorrence for strings. Her casual attitude and talent in bed had elevated her from _one-night stand_ to _friends with benefits_—status she shared with only a handful of other girls. And her natural wit and uninhibited nature had made her one of his more frequent paramours.

"Greta," he greeted smoothly, arms crossed, one shoulder leaning against the wall. "How was your summer?"

"Dull," she informed him. "I'm glad it's finally over." She crossed her arms, too, and sent him playful, disapproving smile. "It's _been_ over, you know," she scolded. "You could have asked me about it before now. Or, at least, come to say hello."

"I've been busy," Draco explained with a grin. "Head Boy duties and all that."

Greta raised one sculpted brow. "Yes, and all that," she answered knowingly.

Draco's grin only widened. He didn't try to deny the insinuation that he'd been busy with other girls.

The Ravenclaw girl wasn't angry. In fact, she shook her head with affection. "So tell me, _Head Boy_," she went on breezily, "what is the new dormitory like? Nice and cozy?"

"Cozy enough," he answered coolly. "It's not terribly spectacular." He arched one white-blond brow. "I _can_, however, think of a few things that might liven it up."

"I bet you can," Greta returned dryly.

A group of students appeared behind her, wanting to enter the hall, and she shifted out of the entranceway to Draco's other side, letting them through. They nodded their thanks, and she watched as they moved to the Hufflepuff House table, resting her back against the wall.

"I hear it's fit for a king," she said after a moment, her eyes still straight ahead.

Draco shifted against the wall to face her. "What, the room?" he asked. She nodded, her eyes still on the tables ahead. "I'm afraid it isn't as luxurious as all that. But... it does have its advantages," he told her quietly. "Privacy, for one." A smile was growing on her lips, but she still didn't look at him. He tilted his head. "I could show you..." he offered suggestively.

She glanced at him. "I know you could," she said, looking his built body up and down. "I'm just surprised," she added flippantly. "There's fresher blood here, Draco." She looked back out to sea of students. "That prim fifth year transfer, for instance," she said with a nod. "She would make a much better conquest."

Draco followed Greta's hazel gaze to the dark-haired girl, who was prudishly ignoring one of her new housemate's clumsy attempts at flirtation.

He looked back to the girl beside him. "She's not as pretty as you are."

Greta smiled. "That is very true," she allowed. And then she looked back to him. "Not in the mood for a challenge tonight, Draco?"

No. He wasn't. He didn't want a challenge, didn't want the fuss. He didn't want to have to work, to chase, to seduce... didn't want to have to be patient. Tonight he needed something simple, something effortless and straightforward. He didn't need the victory of a conquest—just a quick diversion and fast relief.

He didn't explain, just kept the smirk in place. "Are you calling yourself easy?" he asked her, one eyebrow raising.

"I'm not _not_," she replied with breathy candor. She shook her head, and her heady gaze fell to his lips. "You know I never say no to a good time."

"And that's why I like you," Draco answered, his voice going low.

Another group of students approached, this time ready to exit, catching Greta's attention, momentarily breaking the spell. She looked away from Draco to smile at them as they passed. Draco glanced, too—his eyes sharpening as they found the emerald eyes of Harry Potter.

The Boy-Who-Lived led the group, like the captain of a brigade. Behind him, his sidekick Weasley was chatting loudly with Neville Longbottom. Trailing after them was the younger Weasley, her arm linked with a tired Hermione's arm. Finally, behind them, Dean Thomas was walking silently with Finnigan.

Harry's gaze found his enemy's as he neared the open entrance doors. "Malfoy," he acknowledged dully as he passed.

"Potter," the blond man returned. His silver gaze glanced at Hermione, but then moved to the two redheads walking behind. "Weasleys," he added tightly. He didn't bother to acknowledge the others.

Ron only glowered, but his younger sister smiled. "Malfoy," she greeted sweetly. She looked at the blonde-haired girl beside him, and then sharply back again. "I see you've selected your latest victim," she observed, nodding pointedly to Greta.

Draco smirked. "Do I detect a hint of jealousy?"

"Do I detect a hint of _delusion_?" Ginny bit back. She shook her head with false sympathy. "Poor, poor Malfoy. I'd get that head of yours checked out," she advised. "I'm afraid self-importance has finally driven you from reality completely."

"My head is just fine, Weasley," Draco comforted dryly. "But I thank you for your concern." He glanced at Hermione, but her weary gaze was averted.

"Just being a good Samaritan," Ginny stated crisply. Crossing her arms, she glanced to the Ravenclaw beauty at his side. "I'd run while you still can, Greta," she warned the other girl. "I know the gossip says he's good, but I'm sure you'll just be disappointed." She returned her glaring gaze to Draco's. "Malfoy is too _conceited_ to care about pleasing anyone but himself."

Draco smiled amusedly. "Unfortunately, you'll never get the chance to test that theory for yourself."

"Is that a promise?" Ginny asked.

"It's the solemnest of vows," he assured her.

"Well I'll hold you to it," she told him, her smile sarcastic-sweet.

"Come on, Ginny," Harry broke in, conscious of the way Hermione's shoulders slumped at the confrontation. "Let's leave Malfoy to his... work."

The redheaded girl linked her arm around Hermione's again. "If we must." She sent one last sarcastic smile Draco's way. "Malfoy," she saluted.

He lowered his head in a mocking bow. "Weasley." And then his gaze went to Hermione. She was still looking down when Ginny dragged her away.

Draco ground his teeth together, watching her back as she slowly disappeared around the corner with her friends.

"Ginny Weasley seems to have some very set opinions," he heard Greta remark mildly from beside him. "About you—and, apparently, about your sexual prowess."

He turned to her, his easy smile back in place. "Very _ignorant_ opinions," he agreed amusedly. And then he raised a brow. "Unless you'd like to lodge a complaint…"

Greta brought one finger up to sensually trace down one defined cheek. "Have I ever?" she asked in a husky whisper.

His gaze fell to her smiling lips. He was about to lean down when he was interrupted again. "Draco," a new, expectant voice cut in, causing Greta's hand to guiltily drop away.

He looked towards the sound. Pansy Parkinson was before them, her dark eyes narrowed, her wide lips stretched into a tight smile.

"What do you want?" he asked her with the cold indifference of a king.

Pansy looked deliberately from her future husband to the woman at his side. "Will you be gracing us with your presence in the Dungeon this evening?" she asked him.

"Not tonight," he told her shortly. He looked at Greta. "I have... other things to attend to." He didn't even try to hide the intent in his gaze.

"I see that," Pansy stated primly, looking the Ravenclaw girl over with critical eyes. "Well, then." She turned her haughty gaze back to him. "I suppose I'll see you in the morning." She looked back to Greta. "Greta," she acknowledged, forcing a smile. "Sleep well." And then she was regally walking away, back straight, chin held high.

They watched her as she slowly disappeared around the corner. "You don't ever think about her...?" Greta asked him curiously, her thoughtful eyes on the older girl's retreating form.

"Not if I can help it." The girl at his side sent him a faintly disapproving smile. "Would you rather I went after her?" he asked the woman pointedly. "Spent the night with her instead of you?"

"That would probably be the right thing to do." Greta licked her lips sensually. "But I find I'm much less interested in Pansy's feelings. And a lot _more _interested in my own..."

The words had Draco's grey eyes brightening with purpose. Slowly, he took her hands in both of his. Determinedly, he began to pull her back through the entrance, into the corridor... silently leading her towards his dormitory, where no one else could interrupt them.

* * *

The group of Gryffindors had retreated together to their dormitory to settle in for the night. In one corner of the common room, Ron was beating Dean at a game of Wizard's Chess. Seamus was in one cushioned chair, skimming through an old quidditch magazine. Neville was helping Harry with his Advanced Herbology homework. And Hermione sat silently on the large sofa beside Ginny, her head resting on the younger girl's shoulder, her gaze staring through the windows and out into the night.

"Are you okay?" the redheaded beauty asked her, resting her cheek against Hermione's hair. "You seem sad..."

She felt Hermione shake her head. "I'm just tired," was the soft reply. "There's so much to do. I've got so many classes this term." She sighed. "And I guess I have the Halloween Dance to start thinking about."

Ginny wrapped an arm around her shoulder, squeezed. "Don't worry about the dance. It's the same every year. And I've already set up a meeting with the Prefects to sort out decorations and the menu and the music and all that." She held Hermione away with a smile. "All you have to worry your pretty little head about is getting yourself a handsome date."

Hermione let her lips lift up into a halfhearted smile. "Well, fortunately, we can check that one off the list." Ginny's brows furrowed questioningly. "Brandon already asked me to go with him. And I guess I said yes."

Her friend's eyes widened. "Brandon _Madison_?" she asked excitedly. She squealed when Hermione slowly nodded. "Well aren't you coy," she accused. "You never told me he fancied you!"

"He doesn't fancy me," Hermione argued quietly. "We're just going as friends."

Ginny waved a dismissive hand. "No bloke asks a girl this early if he just wants to go as friends," she informed the Head Girl mildly. "It's a _date_, Hermione." She sighed romantically. "A date with a gorgeous, _gorgeous _man."

Hermione forced a smile for her friend, but she didn't share her enthusiasm. For some reason, all the idea evoked was a tired, empty sigh.

"Now if only some _other _people would follow Brandon's example," Ginny said miserably, her blue eyes going across the room to where Harry sat. "I guess the jump from 'just friends' to 'date' is harder for some men than others."

Hermione followed her gaze, her eyes landing fondly on her emerald-eyed friend. "Some men have friendships that are too important to risk," she explained quietly after a moment. "It's because you mean so much to him that he keeps you at arm's length. He doesn't want to lose you, Ginny."

"But he _will _lose me," the ocean-eyed girl said wistfully. "I won't be able to wait for him forever, you know."

"I know," Hermione said comfortingly. "He knows, too," she added. "He knows this year may be his last chance." She smiled softly. "Which is why I know this year he'll finally ask you to the dance."

Ginny looked longingly across the room, then back to Hermione. She forced herself to shrug. "We'll see," was all she said.

Hermione took the younger girl's hand and waited for her cobalt gaze to connect with her meaningful one. "He'll ask you," she promised. "He will."

Ginny swallowed, smiled brokenly, gratefully nodded.

"What are you two whispering about over there?" Harry called interestedly from his seat.

Ginny's faltering smile immediately turned flippant. "If we wanted you to know about it we wouldn't be whispering, now would we?"

Harry's smile was affectionate. "Come on, Gin," he coaxed. "I know how to keep a secret." Ginny only rolled her big blue eyes.

Harry's gaze moved to Hermione, the affection staying in place but the smile fading. She looked worn out, as if she'd had the longest day of her life. Her dark eyes were heavy, as if longing for sleep, and her smile was slow, as if it took effort to keep the corners of her lips tilted up.

He stood, crossing the room to her. "Tired, Mione?" he asked.

She nodded. "I should probably be heading back. It's past curfew." She began to stand, but Ginny halted her, grabbing one weary hand.

"Stay here," she commanded with a smile. "We'll have a sleepover, just like old times."

Hermione squeezed her hand. "Maybe next time." Ginny pouted, but reluctantly let go.

"We'll see you in the morning?" Harry asked, walking her to the door that guarded the secret passageway to her chambers.

"Of course," Hermione told him. She reached into her pocket—frowned when she didn't find what she was looking for. "Oh. I..." She broke of, sighing at her own stupidity. "I'm going to have to go the long way. I forgot the key."

"I could walk with you," Harry offered.

She shook her head, her curls swaying. "It's okay," she said quietly. "You'd only get in trouble if you got caught."

"I don't care about that," he dismissed firmly.

Still, she shook her head. "It's okay," she said again. "I'll see you in the morning."

Harry felt like arguing, but those fragile eyes forced him to relent. "See you in the morning," he conceded, bending, planting a careful kiss on her forehead. He turned. "Ron. Hermione's leaving."

"'Night, Mione," the redhead called, not looking up from his game.

"Goodnight." Hermione slowly crossed the room to the entrance. She could feel Harry's eyes until the Fat Lady closed behind her, breaking his gaze.

* * *

Draco had wanted a distraction—and a distraction he had received. Greta was proving to be a _quality_ escape. He wasn't thinking about anything, wasn't even thinking about her. His mind was blank and thoughtless—all that possessed him was raw animal need.

She was above him in nothing but her matching bra and panties, her knees straddling the cushions on either side of his hips, her legs hugging his powerful legs. Her hands gripped tight to the sofa back behind him, her eyes closing in pleasure as his hands painfully clutched the flesh at her waist.

Her blonde hair was hanging down in long waves around them, and he roughly brushed it aside so he could open his mouth over her skin. His breathing quick, he pressed her harder down onto his lap, onto the hard bulge that strained underneath his pants.

"You smell good," Greta was saying huskily from somewhere above his ear. He said nothing, just reached up and expertly unhooked her brassiere. She hurriedly drew her arms out of it, tossed it to one side, moaning as he violently massaged her now-revealed breasts.

"Your pants," she groaned, even as she reached down between their bodies for his zipper.

But the loud _click_ of a door shutting brought both of them to a halt. Draco's grey, lust-filled eyes came around to find the source—and crashed back to reality when they found the still form of Hermione Granger.

Greta grabbed Draco's discarded shirt from the cushions beside them and held it against herself, shielding her naked breasts. "Uh, hey, Hermione..." she greeted, biting her lip with humor at the uncomfortable situation.

Hermione averted her gaze warily. "I'm sorry. I... forgot my key." She glanced back, her eyes meeting Draco's stormy steel ones. She shook her head, mortified, and quickly looked away. "I'm so sorry." She hurried across the room.

"It's okay..." Greta tried to say, but the girl had already disappeared behind the lion portrait. "Well, that was awkward," she laughed. She turned her hazel eyes back down to Draco. His jaw was tight and he was looking away. "Now, where were we...?"

Instead of pulling her close again, Draco threw her to one side and stood. "You need to leave."

"What?" Greta's shoulder's slumped impatiently. "But it was just starting to get fun."

He grabbed her pile of clothes and tossed them at her. "Get dressed," he commanded curtly. "Now."

He paced to the fireplace. Resting an elbow against the mantel, he brought his fist up to his lips, his troubled eyes glaring at the lion portrait, which was just visible past the archway.

Greta looked over her shoulder to where his gaze was, and then back again. "I know you don't like her, Draco," she said quietly. "But she's gone now." Deliberately, she dropped the bra he had tossed at her, letting it fall forgotten to the floor. She closed the distance between them in slow, sauntering steps. "We shouldn't let her spoil the mood."

Draco jerked away when she tried to take his hand. "She has nothing to do with it."

He turned away from her and towards the window, looking out into the night. He clenched his jaw when he felt her hands circle his bare abdomen and her breasts press against his back. "Come on, I'm sure we haven't traumatized her," she soothed in that low, sensual voice. "She _has _seen a naked girl before, you know."

Draco whipped around. "I said she has nothing to do with it," he declared dangerously. "Now go."

Greta rolled her eyes. "Fine," she said edgily, backing up, "if you're going to be a sourpuss about it." She went to the sofa and began pulling on her clothes. "Ginny Weasley was right, I guess," she bit off as she angrily buttoned her shirt. She stepped into her skirt, zipped it up with a snap. "You build a girl up and then leave her disappointed."

"Don't worry," Draco said back icily. "It won't happen again. None of it."

Greta smiled flippantly. "There's no need to be absolute. I'd be more than happy to take a rain check," she told him sweetly. "The next time you come find me, just make sure you've taken your medication first."

Draco's eyes narrowed in disgust. "Get out, Greta."

"Oh, I'm out," she assured him crisply, and with a slam of the centaur portrait, she was gone.

Draco stormed across the room, underneath the archway, toward the entrance to his bedchamber. But he found himself hesitating as he passed the lion entrance to her room. He was filled with the sudden urge to force his way in, to explain...

And then he made a sound of disgust at himself and continued to the solace of his own room. He didn't owe Granger a _damn thing_—especially not an explanation. If anything, it was the other way around. If anything, it was _her _who owed _him_ an explanation: about her tired eyes and thinning frame... about the blood on the bathroom floor...

He angrily threw open the door to his right, not bothering to knock. His eyes narrowed on the cool tiles, on the place where that little dark red puddle had been.

What the _hell_ was she doing to him? Why the hell was she obsessing him this way? He had tried to forget about her, had tried to push her from his mind. With Greta's help, he had almost succeeded. But then all of sudden, _she _had appeared, looking at him with those soft, defeated brown eyes. And, just like that, he was back—back on earth, back in _hell_. Back to _thinking_ about _her_.

And, _just like that_, the real reason he hadn't been able to finish what he'd started was staring him in the face. Greta was nothing to him. She was just a face, a body. She could have been any girl.

Any girl but the one that suddenly _was _something to him—

Any girl but Hermione Granger.


	4. Hungry for Escape

_Saving You—DMHG. Hermione Granger has a secret, one that's literally killing her. Who will come to her rescue? What if the only one who can is Draco Malfoy? Rated M for sexual content (including rape), suicide ideation, and violence._

_Disclaimer—Most of the characters and a lot of the setting belong to J.K. Rowling. The rest is mine._

A/N: Last updated May 15, 2012.

* * *

**:::Hungry for Escape:::**

A few days went by. The incident with Greta Berg had succeeded in driving Hermione even further away, until it seemed she was nothing more than a shadow that sometimes passed through. She never entered or exited through the lion portrait anymore, instead choosing to take the Gryffindor passage door. She never dwelled long in shared spaces like the balcony or the bathroom, and when Draco did happen to run into her, she would hurry away without a sound.

He knew she wanted to stay out of his way. After what she'd walked in on, he knew she probably thought it was what he wanted, too.

It _was _what he wanted... wasn't it? Yes, he forced himself to say. _Yes_, he tried to make himself believe. But his subconscious always knew better.

The blood on the bathroom floor still weighed heavy on his mind. He tried not to think about it, tried not to think about _her_. But every time he entered the bathroom, his eyes would fall to that place on the white tiles, the red image of blood appearing before him, as if stained in his mind as much as on the floor.

_What do you want_, she had asked him. It kept replaying in his mind. _Nothing_, he had told her, but he knew it wasn't true. What he _did _want, however, was still abstract, intangible even to him.

He wanted _answers_—of that much he was sure. But what would happen once he found them? Would they free him of his fixation? Or would they only fixate him further?

He had a feeling it might be the latter. He had a feeling that _answers_ might never be enough.

* * *

At lunch, Harry watched his friend with worried eyes. She was staring at her food again, the way she had been at every meal the past couple of weeks, like it was some foreign thing she'd never seen or heard of, like she wasn't sure what to do with it beyond watching it sit on her plate. That glazed look was in her eyes, as if she was lost in the winding labyrinth that was her mind—as if she wasn't trying to find her way back out.

"Mione, you haven't eaten a bite," Harry said quietly, touching her arm.

She awoke at the feel of a troubled hand against her sweater. "Sorry?" she asked.

"I said you haven't eaten a bite," he repeated, annunciating. "And you didn't have any breakfast this morning." _Or any dinner last night, and barely a forkful of lunch before that!_

"I'm not hungry, I guess," she explained without looking at him.

Harry and Ron looked at each other. They had spent the last few years watching their friend deteriorate before their eyes, never once understanding why… not knowing how to confront the issue, or even if they should.

But things had gone too far now. Hermione's poor eating had progressed to not eating at all. She was so thin now, and so fragile, like she would shatter if you hugged her, like the wind would blow her over with the lightest of gusts. Her hands shook, as if she struggled to hold them up, and she walked slowly, as if each step was uncertain.

Ron put his glass down. "You haven't been hungry for a _week_, Mione," he said to her. "Not even on the days they serve cherry pie! You're going to get sick if you don't eat something…"

"I'm fine," she assured them, her tarnished gold eyes looking from emerald to sapphire. "I'm just… not hungry." She stood before they could argue. "I have to return that overdue book." Sighing, she leaned down, pecking the top of Harry's head, and then Ron's. "I'll see you in Charms," she said. And then looking away guiltily, she grabbed her bag, slinging it over her shoulder before slowly walking away.

"This conversation isn't over, Hermione!" Ron called to her back. Her only response was a solemn glance over her shoulder. The red-haired boy shook his head, sighed. "Well I guess I'm off, too, then. I've got to find my quidditch robes before the match." He stood, frowning down at his friend. "We'll talk to her about it later," he reassured when he saw the green-eyed boy's frown.

Harry's eyes stayed on Hermione's back. "She needs to eat," he said, his eyes uncertain, his voice low. He watched as she disappeared from sight before shifting his gaze to Ron. "Why isn't she eating?"

"I dunno, mate," he replied, scratching his neck, sighing. "We'll talk to her later."

Harry nodded. "Yeah. Okay." He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "See you in Charms."

The smile was gone the minute his friend turned away.

* * *

Hermione looked at the clock from her chair in the library. Class would start soon, she realized. She would have to face her friends, with their worried eyes and desperate questioning.

With an internal sigh, she gathered her things, pushing her heavy books into her bag, adjusting the heavy bag over her shoulder. It felt as if it weighed a thousand pounds. She grabbed hold of the chair in front of her, closed her eyes, giving herself a minute to get used to the weight.

How long had it been since she'd eaten? She wasn't keeping track, but it was obvious that her body was doing it for her. There was a new weakness inside of her, a result of the subtle starvation she was subjecting herself to.

She shook her head, forcing her legs to walk.

_Hunger._ It was painful, but it was better than feeling nothing at all. And she wanted to _feel _something, anything. She refused to let _food_ kill off what little humanity she had left...

She hadn't realized that even the pangs of hunger would fade away like everything else, leaving no pain, nothing but the familiar weakness and fatigue.

Her bag seemed to grow heavier with each forward step, and she began to struggle to hold herself up. Lightheaded, weak, she slowly made her way out of the library, focusing on maintaining her balance as she went. She had made it down two corridors and around a corner when the dizziness overwhelmed her. Dropping the bag from her shoulder, she let herself slowly slide to the ground—thanking God that the hallway was empty, that no one was there to see her body melt.

She stayed down, resting her head back against the wall.

The sun was against her face, shining in from a window high above. She closed her eyes, breathing deeply. She may have been sitting there for minutes, or even hours, when suddenly the orange behind her eyes turned dark and the afternoon warmth left her face.

Drowsily, she opened her eyes.

Then closed them again, shutting out the unwanted image of Draco Malfoy.

* * *

Draco ventured to the library, telling himself that he _wasn't_ looking for _her_. He discovered her there, sitting silently, books strewn on the table before her, trying not to feel a wave of satisfaction and relief. Venturing deeper into the room, he pretended to busy himself in the shelves. Really, his eyes were on her, on her still form, on the exhausted curve of her back.

Time passed. Eventually, she stood, the slight movement gradual, as if it took work. She lifted her book bag to her shoulder with care, and her body sagged a bit under the weight. She took hold of the chair in front of her, gripping it until her knuckles were white. She didn't move for many moments, and concern had Draco stepping forward. But she was opening her eyes and walking away before he could dare his conscience to intervene.

With narrowed eyes, he watched her disappear from the room. His every impulse was telling him to follow her, but reason and rationality restrained him. How would he keep her out of his head if he didn't keep her out of his way? How could he keep her away from him if he didn't keep _himself_ away from _her_?

It was an internal war, sanity versus insanity. He knew immediately which one he would choose—hated that it wasn't the one he should. But like every time before, his willpower fell through when he needed it most, and it was only a matter of minutes before he was following her out the door. His eyes searched up and down the corridor, looking for the gleam of dark curls or the flash of gold eyes. He caught sight of her at the end of the hall, just as she slowly disappeared around a corner.

He began to trail after her when a voice stopped him. "Malfoy."

Draco turned to find Blaise Zabini, flanked on either side by Crabbe and Goyle. The two larger boys were laughing goofily amongst themselves, but Blaise's focus was on Draco. He slowly stepped forward. "Where are you going?" he questioned with a quizzical smile.

"What do you mean?" Draco asked, closing his face off, making his voice normal.

Blaise laughed, but his dark eyes were skeptical. "We've got class," he informed his friend. "Remember?"

"Your point…?"

Blaise crossed his arms, raised a brow. "My _point_ is that you're going in the wrong direction. Divination is _that _way, mate." He raised an expectant brow. "Aren't you coming?"

Draco glanced tensely over his shoulder, down the hallway to the place where Hermione had just been.

Blaise's eyes narrowed, looking beyond his friend, down the corridor to the empty space. "You two go on ahead," he said to Crabbe and Goyle. His voice was friendly, but there was command in his tone. The other boys looked reluctant, but obeyed, nodding to their superiors before heading on their way.

Blaise waited for them to be out of earshot before turning back to Draco. The usual good humor that brightened his dark eyes was gone, leaving only black. When he spoke, his voice was low, grave.

"What's going on between you and her?"

Draco clenched his jaw, smiled tightly, looked away. He didn't bother to ask whom Blaise was referring to, or how he knew. He didn't bother to pretend, didn't try to play dumb. The dark-skinned boy had been blessed—or maybe cursed—with the power of observation. He had ways of knowing things about you that you yourself hadn't yet figured out.

"Nothing," Draco answered between his teeth, speaking only in half-truth.

Blaise studied him for a while. "Good," he said finally, eyes narrowed. "You're coming to class, then."

Draco looked over his shoulder, then back to Zabini, not knowing whom to follow. Torn between obeying his head and obeying his heart. Torn between going down the path that was right and going down the path that _felt _right. Realizing that there was no going back from whichever he chose.

Blaise nodded at Draco's silence, both of them knowing who and what he'd chosen. "What you're doing is dangerous," he warned his friend quietly. "The others won't be so understanding." When, as usual, Draco said nothing, the darker boy was forced to sigh. "Do what you will," he told his friend, knowing the Slytherin Prince always would. "I'll make your excuses. For now," he added pointedly.

They shared one silent moment, something close to understanding passing between them. And then they both turned away and walked in opposite directions.

* * *

The rest of Hogwarts had faded into the classrooms, every student ready and accounted for.

All except for two.

Draco searched the empty corridors, cursing himself for this nonsense. She had _obviously_ gone to class—something he himself should have done long ago. All of this was a waste of time and energy, and like Blaise had so sternly reminded him, it was _dangerous_. It was _madness_. This wasn't worth risking his skin. _She_ wasn't worth it.

Frustrated, he began to turn back and head to class when he caught sight of her. And all the denials swimming in his brain melted away.

Hermione was laid back against the wall, her bag resting a few feet away. Her brown curls were gold with sunlight, the perfect ringlets tossed messily over her eyes, across her shoulders. Her eyes were closed, her face relaxed and peaceful, as if she had fallen asleep there in the middle of the empty hallway.

Draco watched her for a few minutes, gritting his teeth at the strange feeling in his heart. No woman had ever affected him like this. There had been scores of girls, ones with wide luscious lips and dark sultry eyes, ones with hips that swayed when they walked and voices that cooed with sensuality. Girls that had teased and taunted their way into his life—or, more accurately, into his _bed_—girls who were always playing games, trying to tempt him into coming just a little bit closer...

He had been hard with lust for those girls. But that was all. They were nothing more than toys to amuse him, to distract him, nothing more than something to pass time, to release steam.

Things were different with Hermione Granger, different in a new and disconcerting way. She'd done nothing to entice him, yet he was enticed. She'd done nothing to sway him, yet he had been swayed. She was no great beauty, and yet he couldn't tear his eyes away from her, couldn't turn his thoughts from her.

With those other women, there had been only carnal need, only the fast, easy relief of heat and flesh. Their come-hither looks and breathy words brought out a demon, one that told him to take, to dominate. They brought out the animal in him, clawing and crazed.

Granger had none of that blatant sexuality, none of that gamey appeal. Her hold on him somehow transcended the physical, overshadowed it. Everything about her demanded _gentleness_ from him: her soft beauty, her frail body, her obvious innocence. There wasn't one vain or artful bone in her body, and any games she did play were not designed to lure him closer, but instead to keep him at arm's length.

Still, those haunted eyes and sad smiles drew him in. They brought out new, different instincts, ones that told him to _give_, to _protect_. She brought out the man, the one that had been suppressed deep inside. The one he hadn't known existed—the one that would surely be dead soon…

He had always been the one to dominate. Never before had someone dominated _him_. But somehow Hermione Granger _had_. She had swept through and had taken hold, the action swift and thorough, conquering him completely.

And she hadn't even meant to. She didn't even know.

Draco fisted his hands, hating his thoughts, unsure of what they meant, unsure if he wanted to know.

Swallowing, he began to move forward. His steps were slow and quiet, his eyes narrowed as he neared her. She was breathing deeply, in and out, the sound a whisper against the walls. Light from the windows was streaming down onto her face, the sun shining in her milk-chocolate curls, making a halo. He was in front of her with one final step, his body suddenly blocking the sun. The shadow he cast took away the light, but the ethereal aura couldn't be erased.

Hermione opened her eyes, shut them again.

When she didn't speak, he did. "What exactly are you doing, Granger?" he asked sardonically, studying her.

Hermione sighed, wondering how to explain, not sure if she should even try. Malfoy was proving to be more of an inconvenience than she ever could have thought. This was the second time he'd found her in an unguarded moment—the second time she'd been caught.

And what scared her most was that she _wasn't_ _scared_. She was something else, something close to relieved.

"Do you usually sit in the middle of corridors like this," he asked her, tilting his head, taking her in. Her hands were shaking, the movements tiny, but noticeable. They had Draco's own hands itching to take them, to hold them steady.

"Sometimes," she said tiredly, opening her eyes again. _Sometimes when I'm too weak to move, or even to stand. Sometimes when I'm too tired to try._

"You _do _know that you're late for class," he said, crossing his arms. The words were feathered with amusement, but he wasn't amused at all.

Hermione groaned at that, bringing her shaky fingers to her forehead. Time and place had slipped away from her as exhaustion had taken hold.

How had she let herself fall so far behind?

"What time is it?" she asked him without looking up.

He glanced at his watch. "You can still make it," he told her. "You haven't missed much."

Hermione nodded, but she didn't move to get up. Instead, she stayed where she was, silent and still.

"You should get a move on, then," she heard Draco tell her doubtfully after a moment.

"I should," she agreed, looking down the corridor. She sighed again, and this time the sound was deep. "Why aren't you in class?" she asked resentfully after another moment.

Draco shrugged. "I've got a free slot," he lied. The words were casual and believable. It had taken years to master the art of lying, but he had done it. He hadn't had a choice. "You should hurry," he advised, his voice low. "The professors will wonder."

He waited. When she didn't respond, or even look in his direction, his eyes narrowed. "What happened to you, Granger?"

Hermione frowned at her bag, trying to find the energy to pull it closer. "I've been sitting here. I… lost track of time." She shrugged weakly. "I was stupid."

They weren't lies.

"I didn't mean what happened to make you late," he said with one brow raised. He watched her swallow. But again, she made no attempt to reply. "You can explain all that I-lost-track-of-time stuff to the professor when you get there. If you leave now, you might not get detention."

Hermione finally looked up, and for a few moments they watched each other. Draco wasn't going away, she realized with a frown. He would stand there all day if she didn't move. Did he like seeing her this way, she wondered bitterly. Was that it? Did he enjoy watching her in her weakness? Did he revel in her defeat?

Was he laughing at her?

Hermione was surprised at the slight pain the thoughts caused. It was broken pride, she realized with wonder. God, was there still a little pride left? She hadn't thought so…

She attempted to stand, slowly sliding up, letting the wall hold her steady. With a careful breath she took a step forward, moving away from the wall. It was slow, but not slow enough for her tired body to handle. Dizziness began to swirl through her core, and tiny beads of color began to cloud her vision.

She didn't know she was falling until he caught her.

Draco swept her up into his arms, holding her as if she were a child. "Damn it, Granger." His jaw clenched at the mere weight of her. He had noticed she'd become thinner, but the extent was frighteningly severe. She was little more than a skeleton in his arms. He bent to pick up her bag, threw it over his shoulder. The thing seemed as heavy as she was, a fact that had a strange feeling turning in his stomach.

"Put me down," she begged in a mortified whisper. Draco said nothing and made no move to do as she asked. Instead, he began to walk, carrying her forward. She let out a tiny, strangled sound, bringing a hand to her dry lips.

She was at his mercy now. And for some odd reason it didn't bother her. It wasn't apathy she was feeling, she realized, only half-grateful. It was something else...

Hermione let her head gently fall to his shoulder, resting it there. She could smell him, a strange, masculine scent that she'd caught in brief waves during class or in the hall. It overwhelmed her now. Closing her eyes, she breathed it in, letting it make her even more lightheaded.

The weight of her head against his shoulder, the exhaustion that it signified, made him ache with tenderness. Her soft curls brushed against his neck, and their warm scent floated up into his nostrils. Her hand was resting against his heart, and he fought to keep his pulse under control. It was harder to pull off than it had ever been before.

Where was he taking her? She didn't think to ask, didn't think to care. The world around her was spinning, dizziness turning everything upside down. Were they walking on the ceiling? Or had it really been that long since she'd had something to eat?

Draco carried her to their dormitory, moving through the corridors and up the staircases too easily. Walking through the common room and into their little hallway, he came to stand in front of the portrait of the lion. The grassland king stiffened at the sight of him, growling threateningly in what could only be interpreted as an effort to defend his queen.

"Granger. What's your password?"

The lion growled louder, perceiving Draco as an intruder.

He shook her gently in his arms when she didn't answer. "Granger."

"Hm?" she asked faintly.

"Your password," he said with practiced patience, his voice low, but not gentle.

Hermione opened her eyes and found that they were at the entrance to her bedchamber. "_Cursum perficio_," she whispered, watching the lion portrait reluctantly swing open.

_I finish my journey_, Draco translated in his mind. He shook his head at the password. Like everything else, it left more questions than answers.

Gently, he laid her on the bed, watching with an aching heart as she curled herself up. "What is this?' he asked, almost to himself. She heard the question, couldn't answer. Draco shook his head, turned. "I'll get you some water," he told her quietly.

"No," she said. He turned back, his eyes meeting hers. "Please… just go."

"I'll get you some water," he repeated, annunciating the words, his voice daring her to go against him again. When she didn't, he turned back to the door.

He was gone and then back again a second later with a tall glass of clear liquid. He held it out to her for her to take, but she didn't move.

"Take the glass, Granger."

Something in his voice made it impossible to argue. She reached out, her arm quivering unsteadily, her fingers weakly closing around the cool cylinder. The glass was like an anvil in her hand, and she could only hold it up long enough to place it on the bedside table.

"I'm not thirsty," she whispered, not daring to lift her eyes to his. There _was _a bit of pride left, she thought. Just enough there to break.

Draco looked from her to the glass, knowing right away what the problem was. Anger spread through him, anger at her, at the gits she called her friends. How had they let things get this far? She was nothing but skin and bones. She could barely stand. She could barely hold a _glass of water_, for Christ's sake!

Shaking his head, he picked the water back up. Hermione watched with wide eyes as he sat on the bed beside her. "Wha- what are you doing?" she stammered, her voice breathless.

Draco held up the glass as his answer, and before she could find her voice to refuse, he was gently cupping her head and carefully holding the container to her lips. She had no choice but to sip, letting the cool liquid clear some of the scratchiness in her throat. They watched each other over the rim, both of their eyes wary.

"You want to tell me what the _hell _all this is about?" he asked her, taking the glass away from her mouth and placing it back on the table.

Hermione averted her eyes. "It's nothing," she whispered, wiping a drop of water from the edge of her lips.

"Nothing. Really," Draco asked, sarcastic. And then he shook his head. "That's not going to cut it, Granger. We both know it isn't true."

Her hand rose to massage a headache away from her temple. "Please, Malfoy. Just leave me alone."

He smiled humorlessly. "You'd like that, wouldn't you? It would be much more convenient if I just turned my back. Pretend that nothing's wrong—like those sods you call your friends—"

"Don't talk about my friends."

"I'll talk about them if I want to," he threw back, his voice raising.

Hermione closed her eyes at the harsh tone, letting her head fall back against the headboard. The show of fragility had Draco snapping his mouth shut. Running a hand through his hair, he took a deep breath. When he spoke again, his voice was patient—barely.

"Granger. You're sick. You weigh less than your damned _cat_, for God's sake." When she turned her head, he had to fist his hands in his lap so that he wouldn't reach out and force her chin back to face him. "How long has it been since you've eaten?" She didn't answer. "And the blood. What about the blood?"

"What blood, Malfoy?" she asked in a tired voice.

"Don't play games with me. You know what blood." He wouldn't let her pretend, wouldn't let her forget. "Whose blood was it, Granger? Whose blood was on the bathroom floor?" He was desperate to hear the answer, desperate to hear her say it wasn't hers.

But she didn't. "I don't know," she repeated with an evasive shrug. "Why does it matter so much?"

Draco was silent for a moment, not sure if it was wise to admit the truth to her, or even to himself. He shook his head, only now seeing the darkened circles under her eyes, the pallid tone of her skin. How long had it been since she'd slept? How long had she been sick like this? That spark in the brown depths of her eyes had faded away and no one had even realized it.

"You need help." It wasn't the direct answer she wanted, but it was the only one he would offer.

Hermione looked up at him. "Don't help me," she commanded wearily. "I don't want your help."

He felt like taking hold of her shoulders, felt like shaking sense into her. "You'll _die_ if you keep this up," he informed her. His voice was cold, harsh. It had to be to keep the pleading out.

Hermione's smile was sad. She looked out the window and into the grey afternoon sky. "I'll die if I don't," she whispered.

The statement was a paradox, one he didn't understand. What did she mean? What was wrong?

"Please. No more questions," she begged, raising a shaky hand to halt his words. "I'm tired."

Draco could see that, and immediately regretted interrogating her the way he had. Fear had blended into fury, a lethal combination that could turn any man into pure, volatile desperation. He stood from the bed, teeth grinding in frustration.

_Don't expect anything at all..._

"Things will be different now," he told her firmly. "I'm not going away."

They watched each other, the weight of silence almost tangible around them.

_There's always more, isn't there…_

He couldn't hate for that. No matter how he tried, he couldn't hate her.

Draco shook his head. "Rest up, Granger," he said.

He left the room, but they both knew he would be back.

* * *

Draco went into his own room, knowing she wanted space—knowing _he_ needed it. Knowing he wouldn't give either of them too much.

He sat on the end of his bed, rubbing a tightly fisted hand across the duvet. His mind was racing, filled with thoughts and fears and accusations. For some reason, he couldn't shut them out. Hermione Granger had him worked up, her sad eyes and frail form provoking emotions he'd never felt in his life. He'd been jaded and cold for as long as he could remember. He'd been convinced that he didn't have the capacity to care, truly _care _about someone—had been convinced he'd lost the ability to feel something as gentle as tenderness.

But when he thought of Granger, his hard heart seemed to weaken with warmth. It ached with _something_, some sickness he couldn't define, some unfamiliar feeling he couldn't quite place.

Closing his eyes, he focused on trying to ease the tension inside of him, tried steel himself, tried to harden again.

He didn't know how long he sat there. What seemed like hours later, he became aware of a tapping noise, loud and incessant. He opened his eyes and looked to the glass wall that separated his chambers from the balcony. An eagle-owl with sharp features and cold eyes was waiting for him on the other side, a glare on its pointed face.

He recognized the creature immediately. He knew what seeing it there meant.

Dread filled him. Slow, heavy steps carried him to the clear door. He opened it, watching warily as the bird stepped regally inside. It held out its leg, presenting a tiny scroll, and, lowering to his haunches, Draco untangled the paper from its ties. He hesitated for a moment before opening it.

_Your Joining is set in stone. November 1st—Be ready. LM_

Draco laughed, the empty sound fading quickly, echoes of it lingering behind. His hands fisted, crumpling the message in his firm fist. Funny, how such a tiny piece of paper could carry a death sentence as big as this.

He stood, grabbed for a piece of parchment to scribble a reply. His grip on the quill was painfully tight, but he couldn't force it to relax.

_I'm prepared. D_

It wasn't a lie. He'd known his fate since childhood. He'd accepted it. And he _would_ be prepared on the first of November.

Prepared… but not ready. He wasn't sure he'd _ever _be ready.

He attached the response to his father's bird and watched with a frown as it flew away.

So it was happening. It was really happening. It hadn't seemed real until this moment. The wheels were in motion, turning and turning down a path of sure disaster. In less than two month's time he would no longer be a free man. He would be a servant, a slave bound to a master he despised and a cause he couldn't understand.

Drawing out his wand, he pointed it at the crumpled note in his hand. "_Incendo_," he said, his voice dead, watching as a spark shot out from the tip and onto the paper. Tiny flames seeped into the page, burning it into nothing.

Draco returned to his place at the end of the bed, sitting slowly. Strange, that even now, as the dim reality of his future was sinking in, his main thoughts were of the girl sleeping in the next room.

* * *

The next afternoon was foggier than the last. Warm rays of sun hid behind a fleet of rain clouds ready to attack at any moment, leaving the air below cool and quiet.

"Whoever's got the field today has rotten luck," Ron observed, looking at the sky. He held out a hand, his palm readily catching a thin bead of moisture as it drizzled down.

"Slytherin," Seamus put in with a snicker. "_Such_ a shame." The others laughed conspiratorially at the sarcasm. "Hey, so what's with Hermione lately?" he asked when the chuckles died down. "She wasn't in class yesterday…"

"Yeah," Dean agreed, crossing his arms. "And I didn't see her at the scrimmage. Did she even show up?"

Harry shrugged, trying to be casual. Hermione's absence in class hadn't gone unnoticed—not by the professor and not by them. "We went to get her before the match but… she was asleep."

The other boys laughed. "What, is she in hibernation? Why didn't you just wake her up?"

Ron crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes. For some reason the words provoked him. "She was really tired," he snapped defensively, "so we let her sleep, if that's okay with you!"

The other boys put their hands up and smiled. "Whoa! Alright. You let her sleep," Dean said with wide eyes.

Neville looked rueful. "We were just wondering, mate..."

The two best friends exchanged glances. How could they explain that Hermione had become a sensitive subject? How could Ron explain that the anger wasn't directed at them at all, but at _her_… and at himself. How could Harry describe this feeling of helplessness that was with him all the time, this all-consuming concern that had him so on edge.

"Sorry," Ron said finally, his shoulders sagging. "School just has me… stressed out."

"If you can't handle the workload then perhaps you should just drop out," came a snide voice from behind them. The group turned to face a haughty Draco Malfoy. "There are other, less demanding schools that can accommodate your need for extra help."

Ron's face reddened with anger. "I thought today was your day to teach Slytherin how to play quidditch," he threw back. "By the looks of your scrimmage the other day it's _you _that needs the _extra help_."

Draco only smiled. "I switched days with Bolter. Ravenclaw has the field," he informed them easily. "It felt like rain." He smirked. "I didn't want to get wet."

"And the Slytherin Prince always gets what he wants," Ron spat bitterly.

"Something like that," he agreed, but the words left a bad taste in his mouth. "Well, I'm off. Surprisingly enough, I have better things to do than go back and forth with you." He turned.

The other boys crossed their arms. "It's against school rules to just leave campus," Seamus called to his back, as if that would stop him. Draco only laughed, provoking frowns. "Where are you even _going_?

"To see a man about a horse," he called dryly without turning.

Harry laughed loudly at his back. "Referring to your girlfriend as a horse," he said back mildly. "That's taking pet names to a whole other level." The boys behind him snickered.

Draco's eyes narrowed. He stopped cold, turned, his silver clashing with his enemy's emerald. There was silence, and when he spoke next, his voice was dangerously low.

"What I call Pansy doesn't matter," he informed Harry quietly. "She's looked after." A pause, and then, pointedly: "I take care of my women."

"Yeah, we know all about how you 'take care' of the chits in this school," Seamus said in disgust. "Hit them and quit them—isn't that how it goes, Malfoy?"

"Perhaps. But they don't want for anything," Draco returned bitingly. And then, staring at Harry with an icy smile: "I make sure they get their fill."

Dead, Seamus, and Neville took the inference at its face value, and scoffed in disgust at the sexual meaning they perceived. But Malfoy's intended image flashed before Ron and Harry's eyes—the image of their frail friend, the one with distant brown eyes and frowning lips. The one who _wasn't _getting her fill, no matter how hard they tried to push, prod, and encourage her.

"You're sick, Malfoy," Dean spat.

Draco's eyes stayed on Harry's. The words had been a blatant attack, one he was sure struck a chord. "I'm right," he corrected with a humorless smile. His eyes were bright with secret knowledge. "Your mate knows what I mean. _Don't_ you, Potter?"

The look on the black-haired boy's face could only be described as murderous. "Piss off, Malfoy," he said through his teeth, his voice threateningly low.

Draco's smile was cold. "With pleasure," he spat back, and then turned on his heel.

The boys watched him go, three with scornful expressions—and two with resentful eyes.

"Nasty son of a bitch. Bastard has absolutely no shame," Seamus accused as they watched the Slytherin Prince disappear. "Best keep our sisters and girlfriends away from that _snake_."

"Yeah," Harry agreed, but his brooding eyes were watching the place on the path where his enemy had just been. Had things really digressed to the point that even _Malfoy_ had noticed how bad they'd become?

* * *

The light drizzle was falling faster as Draco moved through Hogsmeade. People were beginning to crowd underneath the store awnings, trying to shield themselves from the rain.

He moved towards a tiny corner store, swiping a damp strand of white-blond hair from his eyes. The clerk was nowhere in sight as he stepped inside, leaving Draco to wait at the counter.

With a narrowed gaze, he looked around. Sparkling jewels and shiny chains were encased behind glass all around the shop. Pendants of all sizes hung from pins, some of them dark, others of them bright. Fancy glassware and china sets stood atop the cabinets and tables, and figurines made of pure gold sat prettily on the cupboard shelves.

"Mr. Malfoy," came a smooth voice. The clerk emerged from the back room, a sly sort of smile spreading across his face. Malfoys always meant good money. They were among his highest paying customers. "How may I help you, sir?"

Like every Malfoy, Draco had a routine. He would come into the store, all business, his aim to be in and out as quickly as possible. "Wrap your most expensive piece," he would say, without so much as a glance around at the options. "And make it fast."

"Yes, sir. Right away," the jeweler would say dutifully, and would venture off into whatever corner of the store that item resided.

But in a strange break in ritual, Draco began to move silently around the store, carefully inspecting one jewel, his brows thoughtful, then moving to another and doing the same. Slowly, with scrutinizing eyes, he browsed from item to item, taking his time, taking in everything about one before moving on to the next.

"Ah… our more costly pieces are in the far corner… if that's of any help," the clerk chimed in as he watched his customer roam, perplexed by the change in custom.

Draco ignored him, continuing to move through the store his own way, in his own time, examining each piece, his face showing nothing.

"And, uh, there are some new shipments in from Prague… right there on your left," the man said, pointing. "If that interests you at all," he added tentatively. Draco glanced to his left, but found nothing to keep his focus. With slow, careful steps, he continued to make his way from one side of the shop to the other, his eyes scouring from ceiling to floor in search of _something_. Alas, nothing caught his eye.

Bending, he fingered a few finely cut jewels. "Those are always in high demand," the clerk told him. "Very popular among the higher-ups." Draco immediately snapped his hand away and straightened with a frown.

His gaze moved from wall to wall, taking one final survey of the place with that scrutinizing gaze. Finally, his eyes turned to the jeweler's.

"I'm going to have to have something made."

* * *

It was midnight. The afternoon rain had only just dried on the common room windows. Draco sat in the dark on one of the wingback chairs near the fireplace, soaking in the dull warmth and light that glowed in the hearth.

He stared down at the small box in his hand. The thing seemed heavy, as if hesitant, weighted down by its buyer's intent.

He didn't know what had possessed him to buy it, didn't know why he felt this burning need to buy _anything_ for _her_. He wanted to send her a message... There's always more... Things _will_ be different... But he didn't analyze his actions, didn't search for any reason beyond that. He didn't want to face the fact that there might be a different, _deeper_ cause…

A knock sounded through the silence, interrupting his quiet contemplation. His eyes snapped up, looking towards the centaur portrait with a frown.

He didn't move, just stared at the entrance, hoping whoever it was would eventually give up and go away.

The knocking only grew louder. "Come on, Malfoy," a familiar voice coaxed from the other side. "I know you're in there."

Draco's gaze went wary. He forced his way up out of the cushioned seat and to the nearest bookcase, where he carefully hid the small box behind a row of leather-bound books.

The knocking sounded again.

"Calm yourself. I'm coming." He crossed the room, making sure the tension was gone from his face before he pushed open the portrait door. "Zabini," he greeted mildly.

Blaise Zabini waltzed past him into the room. "I figured you'd be awake, so I decided to drop by for a nightcap."

Draco's amused gaze followed him. "A little late for that, don't you think?"

Blaise looked over his shoulder, dark brow raising. "Since when have _you_ ever said no to a drink?"

The blond-haired man let the centaur portrait click closed before shifting to the wall beside it. Casually, he leaned back. "There wasn't enough alcohol for you at the party?" he asked, crossing his arms.

"There is no party. It's quiet in the Dungeon tonight," Blaise replied. And then he looked pointedly at his friend. "You might have known that if you had bothered to come down."

Draco smiled unapologetically. "I've been busy," was all he said.

The dark-skinned boy sent him a bland look. "Busy," he repeated. "Why am I not surprised?"

Draco only smirked in his womanizing way, not disputing Blaise's drawn conclusion. It was better if his friend believed he'd been busy cavorting with his girls as usual instead of chasing after shadows—particularly, the shadows in Hermione Granger's eyes.

"I'm waiting for that drink, Malfoy," Zabini told him expectantly. "Chop-chop," he prompted when his friend only looked at him dryly.

Draco pushed himself off the wall and went to the table. With a silent wave of his wand, a silver tray materialized on its dark wood surface. A large bottle sat imperially, its tall, square body giving way to a narrow neck. Two heavy shot glasses were huddled together at its base.

Blaise rounded the old-fashioned sofa, sat himself on the cushions of one scroll-ended side. "The dormitory isn't too bad," he said conversationally as he waited, surveying his surroundings with critical black eyes. "It's quaint," he decided. "Romantic, in a way." He looked over his shoulder at Draco's back. His eyes narrowed. "I'm sure the chits have just eaten it up."

Draco unscrewed the bottle's cap, poured thick amber into each glass. He could tell his friend was fishing—had known that that was the real reason he had come.

But Blaise would need a bigger hook if he wanted Draco to take the bait.

"I'm more than willing to lend it out to you if you think it will help you score," he replied amusedly, expertly deflecting.

The indirect answer, however, had Blaise on immediate alert. The Malfoy he knew used sarcasm to confirm, not to avert. He was always straightforward about his conquests. That he suddenly _wasn't_ meant there hadn't been any conquests to be straightforward _about_.

Blaise only raised a brow. "I would have thought you'd be too _busy_ using it yourself."

Draco said nothing, only smiled dryly and rounded the sofa, holding out one glass for his friend to take.

The man accepted it. "Cheers," he said, before quickly knocking the liquid back. And then he immediately held the container out. "Another," he commanded.

"What am I, your house-elf?" Draco asked. "You can get your next round yourself."

Blaise held up his hands with a helpless smile. "Fine, fine," he conceded, standing, taking back the empty glass. He took his time moving around the sofa to the table and the silver tray.

Draco watched his back warily and downed the contents his own glass. And then he turned, lowering to the cushion where Blaise had just been. Through the silence, he heard the clink of the bottle, the sound of whiskey filling his friend's small glass.

"This bottle looks pretty full," he heard Blaise observe deliberately from behind him.

He knew what his friend was getting at, and had work to keep his voice light. "Unlike some other men, I don't need to ply women with liquor to make them willing," he said. "They seem to want me just as much when they're completely sober."

Blaise turned, considering the back of his friend's blond head. "So that bottle doesn't signify a lack of play?" he questioned, one knowing brow raised high.

Draco looked into his empty glass. "I'm doing just fine," he assured his friend. "As I'm sure Pansy has told you..."

"She may have mentioned seeing you with Greta Berg," the other man allowed. He came back around the sofa, his drink in one hand, the bottle in the other. "She's actually the one who suggested I come and check on you," he added, pouring another round into the blond man's empty glass.

"_Spy_ on me, you mean." Draco downed the shot. "Letting Pansy boss you around now, Zabini?"

"Not exactly." Blaise placed the bottle on the coffee table and sat himself in the nearest chair. "We had complementing interests."

Draco sent him dry smile. "Oh? And what interests would those be?"

The dark man shrugged one casual shoulder. "Naturally, she wanted to know if you were up here entertaining one of your usual floozies."

"Naturally," Draco agreed.

"And _I_ wanted to know if you were up here entertaining a certain _un_usual mudblood."

Draco's silver gaze snapped up. His amused smile tensed, tightened, turned harsh. "The answer is _C_—none of the above," he told his friend sharply. "Although, whom I choose to entertain is _neither_ of your concerns."

Blaise smiled with false innocence. "Curiosity got the best of me, I guess." And then he nodded to the archway, to the lion portrait waiting behind. "It appears to be getting the best of you, as well."

Draco gritted his teeth.

If he was the Slytherin Price, Blaise was the Royal Adviser. He was the voice of reason in Draco's fast-paced, pleasure-driven, joy ride of a world. He was the one that grounded him when he reached too high, the one that reined him in when he went out of control...

Or, at least, the one that _tried _to rein him in. Like most princes, he had never been the kind to follow advice. He didn't see rules or limits, didn't care about consequences the way Blaise did. He was used to doing whatever he _wanted_ to do—and no amount of good sense from his friend had ever been able to stand in his way. It had been a lifetime of, 'Do you really think that's wise?' always followed by, 'Probably not, but I don't care.' And the Royal Adviser had watched with wry smiles and raises of his brow as Draco had lived hard and fast—and completely his own way.

Still, Blaise had never given up on trying to keep him out of trouble. And that kind of quiet, patient, _persistent_ loyalty deserved something in return.

"I know how it looked yesterday," he admitted patiently. "But I have things under control."

Blaise only sent him a sardonic glance. "So that bauble you bought in Hogsmeade Village today is for Pansy, then?" he asked mildly.

Draco didn't answer, only smiled tightly into the empty shot glass in his grasp.

Blaise shook his head. His friend's silence was answer enough.

He watched the grey-eyed man with frank, skeptical eyes. "This is prime real estate you have," he went on, nodding to the room around them. "A month ago, you would have had a different girl here every night." He held up his glass. "You would have gone through _six_ bottles of this by now."

Draco looked at him with a dull smile. "You've spent the last seven years telling me that I waste too much time drinking and shagging. Now you're telling me that I'm not drinking and shagging _enough_?"

"I don't care that you're not chasing skirt, Malfoy. I just care _why_ you're not."

"Maybe I'm maturing," the prince said charmingly.

"Or maybe you're starting a different kind of game." Blaise's dark gaze went even darker. "She's one of _them_, Malfoy."

Draco smiled sarcastically. "Duly noted."

But Blaise didn't smile back. "I know you know better than to start messing around," he said. "Especially with her," he added seriously. "Especially now."

Two gazes locked, one agitated, one warning. The message was heard and understood.

Whether it would be heeded, however, was another matter entirely.

Long, tense seconds passed. Draco forced himself to be nonchalant. "Another drink?"

Blaise took a moment to answer, his analyzing eyes bright. "Why not?" he replied finally with a smile. He downed the amber contents of his glass before holding it out.

Draco stood, taking the heavy bottle by its neck. He poured another shot for his friend, and then for himself.

"Cheers," Blaise said before drinking it down in one gulp.

"Cheers," Draco echoed quietly, almost hauntedly, to himself.

* * *

Harry and Ron sat Hermione between them at breakfast the next morning. Malfoy's pointed words had all the guilt and confusion returning sevenfold. The idea that they didn't care about Hermione was laughable—but the ferret's main message had stung with truth. They _had _failed to take care of her. She wouldn't be this way otherwise.

If they had known what was wrong or how to fix it, they would have done it without a thought. But they didn't even know how to ask, what to say. Fear that she would break at being pressed, fall at being pushed, had them speechless, helpless. All they could think to do was smile and laugh in the hopes that they could get her to do the same. But they were starting to realize that it just wasn't enough.

She was getting thinner and thinner. Soon she would wither away into nothing at all. Her eyes and voice were always tired, as if she struggled to keep them going. She was sick. She was hurt. And they didn't know why or what to do.

A loud screech sounded, echoing against the walls. "Mail's here," someone sang, just as dozens of owls began to swoop into the room. Packages and letters began to drop from the sky, and excited gasps sounded from the recipients below.

"Here," Ron said absently, handing two cards to Hermione. Second nature had her passing one to Harry and holding the other for herself. It was practically tradition that Mrs. Weasley send each of them letters with Ron and Ginny's.

With a small smile, she broke open the seal.

_Dearest Hermione,_

_How are you, dearie? How is school going? I'm sure you're doing just wonderful so far—Ginny sent word that you got Head Girl, and we couldn't be prouder._

_I was sorry to hear that you won't be coming back to spend Christmas with us this year, but I'm sure you will be having a great time with that lovely father of yours. I'll be sure to owl you all your gifts and cards. If you need anything, dearie, just let me know. I'll be seeing you soon._

_Love always, Molly Weasley._

"You're not coming to the Burrow for Christmas?" Ron asked with a frown, reading the note over her shoulder. "But it's tradition!"

Placing the letter on the table, Hermione picked her fork back up and began to push her food around. "My mum will be in America and… my father doesn't want to be alone."

Harry bit the inside of his cheek, clamping down hard with his teeth. How could they leave her unwatched for that amount of time? He knew her father wouldn't be making sure she got enough sleep. He wouldn't be monitoring her food supply. Like the rest of the world, he obviously hadn't noticed anything was wrong! How could they let her go home and risk things getting worse?

How could they let her go, and risk not getting her back at all?

"We'll be around," Harry assured her, and himself. "It won't be any different."

Hermione nodded, but she didn't really believe him.

Most of the birds were soaring back out again, their missions completed. One lingered, however, an old barn owl with whitish spots—a school owl, by the looks of it. It circled the room a few times before soaring over Hermione, dropping a package into her lap and then quickly following its comrades out again.

Hermione eyed the thing warily. It was a square box, wide and thin and wrapped in regular brown paper. A twine tie wrapped around it, and attached was a note. She opened it, her eyes scanning the brief message.

_There's always more, isn't there? I can't hate you for that._

Her eyes went wary. It wasn't signed, but she knew who it was from. Who else could it be? Slowly, her gaze shifted to the Slytherin table. She caught Draco's eye. He looked at her for only a moment before turning his attention back to Pansy, who, as usual, was smiling sensually and eating off his plate.

"Who's it from?" Harry asked with a frown. It was a rare thing for Hermione to get a package, even rarer for her to get one from someone other than Mrs. Weasley.

"I don't know," she lied.

"What's in it?" Ron asked, grabbing it from her and shaking it a little.

"I haven't opened it yet," she said, taking it back from him with a worried smile.

"Well, go on and do it already!"

Hermione's wary eyes watched the box in her hands for a moment. And then slowly she tore at the wrapping. Brown paper gave way to smooth black velvet. It was a soft, slender box, more elegant looking than any container she'd ever seen. Frowning, she fingered the silky surface, before slowly, gently opening the lid.

Her eyes closed tight against what she found inside.

At the end of a long silver cord was a clear-white, emerald-cut diamond. It was large, like a small block of ice, but there were no clouds behind its walls; clear as glass, smooth crystal gave way to sharp edges, finely cut into sparkling facets and gleaming rims. Around the shining gem coiled a thin silver snake with white-gemmed eyes. Those tiny eyes glittered, as if they saw something they liked.

The piece was... was...

_Beautiful…_

"Whoa!" Ron reacted with wide eyes. "Is that… _real_?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Hermione said, shutting the box with a snap. "Of course it isn't."

"I don't know, Hermione. It definitely looked real to me."

"Well it's not," she insisted. But what if it was? What would it mean?

Unsettled, she stood from her place at the table. "Where are you going?" Ron asked, bewildered.

"I… forgot something in my room. I'll meet you in class." She dragged her heavy bag up over her shoulder, taking a deep breath for support.

"But, Mione, you didn't eat anything," Harry said, pointing to her uneaten plate.

"Not hungry," she explained, gripping the velvet box tightly as a wave of dizziness passed through. "I'll see you in a while."

"Hermione—" But she was already walking away.

They watched her go, both of them wearing twin expressions of dismay. Neither of them noticed when Draco Malfoy rose from his table and followed shortly after.

* * *

With ease, Draco caught the two letters that fell for him—only to have them suddenly plucked from his grasp.

"These from your mother?" Pansy asked curiously, turning over the envelopes in her hands.

Draco snatched them back, wishing that the universal rule that made striking a woman off limits could, for just a few minutes, allow him an exception. The letters that came for him were usually important—and _always _for his eyes only.

She could see the tension, and pouted sexily as he put the two envelopes in his bag. "I was only wondering," she cooed. "Now now, don't be angry with me."

He smiled tightly, the sound of her playful sulking only annoying him further. "You've never seen me angry, Pansy," he assured her through his teeth. "But touch what's mine again and I promise you, you _will._"

Pansy's response was lost on Draco as he watched the school owl drop the thin, square package into Hermione's lap. His eyes narrowed, a new tension entering his body as he watched her silently read the note.

Draco clenched his teeth together tight. He knew he shouldn't have done it, knew he should have taken Blaise's advice. But like all the years before, there was no stopping his instincts, his desires. He _wanted _her to have the necklace, wanted it even though he knew it was wrong. Even though he was sure it would turn out to be a mistake...

Only time would tell just how _big_ of mistake it had been. Only time would reveal how much he would regret it.

Hermione's gaze was suddenly finding his, her chocolate eyes clashing with his smoke ones. He kept his gaze on her for only a second before turning his attention back to Pansy. She had skillfully changed the subject from her wrongdoing of seconds before, already babbling on about how some Hufflepuff boy had asked her to the Halloween Dance, how she'd had to say no. She moved her fork to Draco's plate as she spoke, nibbling on what was left.

When he looked back to Hermione, he found her rising from her seat and slowly walking from her table. With a clenched jaw, he looked back, took in her untouched plate of food. Potter and Weasley were staring at it, as well, talking seriously to each other under their breaths.

Perhaps they weren't as blind as he'd first suspected. Perhaps they felt just as helpless as he did.

"I told him I was flattered and was polite about it all because he happens to be of good family name, but—" Pansy stopped short as Draco stood. "What are you doing?" she asked. "Where are you going, Draco? We have class in a couple of minutes…"

He didn't answer her. He strode from the Great Hall without a single word.

* * *

Hermione moved into the common room, immediately collapsing onto the sofa.

Her eyes went to the velvet box in her hands, staring at the midnight surface, trying to garner the courage to open it again. Holding her breath, she pushed the lid up.

The stone was as bright and clear as a summer day, cut finely into perfection. There was a kind of power to the classic cut. The silver snake, too, was startling in its intensity. Its sparkling eyes held the same cool heat one could find in the diamond eyes of Draco Malfoy.

She touched the silver serpent, letting her finger lightly pet its way down the curved metallic body as it wound around the stone.

Draco entered silently, but Hermione didn't notice. She was absorbed in the necklace, in its grandeur, in its beauty. He watched her unsteady hand lightly touch the gleaming gem, gently stroke the snake around it. And then he saw her smile. It was a tiny movement, barely noticeable in the light. But it wasn't sad, or haunted, or dull. That slight turning up of her lips was warm, a shadow of the smile he used to see on her when she watched Potter and Weasley play quidditch, while she strolled arm in arm with Ginny, when she got a perfect score on her exams.

He caught his own smile before it could spread across his face.

"Do you like it?" he asked her, quietly filling the silence.

She turned her head to face the voice, gently shutting the lid. "Yes," she whispered seriously. "It's beautiful." She looked down again, running her hand over the velvet. "It... almost looks real."

"It should," he said, stepping forward with a dry smile. "Since I _paid _for real." He didn't add that it had cost him a bloody fortune.

And he didn't tell her that he would buy her a hundred more, if only to see her smile like that again.

Hermione swallowed, staring at the box in astonishment, not knowing what to say or even what to think. No one had ever bought her such a gift. Why, it must have been _expensive_—far too expensive to be for someone like her, from someone like him.

Standing, she walked slowly to Draco. "I… can't accept this," she insisted quietly, holding the box out for him to take. "You should give it to someone else. Pansy," she suggested. "Or one of your other girls..."

Draco didn't move. "But I had it made for _you_," he told her, his voice low, his eyes looking into hers.

She was suddenly dizzy. A thousand questions were running through her, mixing and blending in her mind, making her lightheaded. He'd had it _made_? For _her_? Was this some sort of _joke_? Thoughts were whizzing through her brain at a million miles an hour, and she could only latch on to one.

One question. One word.

_Why?_

She wanted to ask, but was too afraid of what he might say, of what the answer might be. Too afraid of what it would mean. Instead, she backed up a step. "So… thank you, then," she whispered, pulling her gaze away, looking anywhere but at his face.

Draco said nothing, did nothing, only continued to watch her with vigilant eyes.

Hermione ran a trembling hand through her hair, shakily combing through the locks. Was it lack of food that had her so unsteady? Or was it pangs of emotion? Neither of them was sure what the answer was, or what they wanted it to be.

"I've got to get to class," Hermione said, needing to escape. "I'm already late."

Draco nodded again. So was he, but he didn't mind.

* * *

Late that night, Hermione sat looking at the gift. Taking it out of its velvet home, she examined it with a smile. It was so lovely, like a star straight from the sky, like heaven in her hand.

The smile disappeared. She shouldn't have accepted such a beautiful thing—not from anyone, but especially not from Draco Malfoy.

Hating herself, she undid the clasp and silently pulled it around her neck for the very first time. She hooked it into place and let it fall gently against her chest. The gem felt heavy and cool against her skin. A sign from God to take it off, she supposed, and to give it back...

She would, in a moment. Just after she… looked…

Biting her lip, she turned to the mirror. A smile lifted the corners of her mouth, gentle and real. Her silk nightgown made the gem sparkle and had the serpent's eyes going bright. Her hair was down, wild wisps of it cascading over her shoulders and across her breasts, resting along the lace material of the dress. She was enchanted by the woman she found in her reflection: a pale princess on her wedding's eve, waiting for her dark knight to come and hold her in his arms…

_Beautiful…_

Hermione laughed at the thought, the sound hushed and bitter. She was nothing but a peasant in princess garb, no more fit to wear fine jewels than a dog on the street. The girl in the mirror was just one more deception, a trick of the light, a silent wish that could never come true.

God, she had almost fooled herself. Almost forgotten herself. But the truth would always show through, reminding her of who and what she really was.

Clasping the pendent, she turned from the lie. Emptiness filled her, consumed her. The need for release fell over her body until she couldn't bear the silence any longer.

Pushing her balcony door open, she moved out into the night. The breeze was warm, but it could have been ice and she never would've noticed. The wind picked up, blowing moonlit curls across her eyes. Standing against the stone parapet, she looked out onto the lake. The moon was high and almost full.

Her gaze fell down to the jagged cliffs beneath her. It was a long way down, she remembered thinking. But for some reason, the endless drop didn't seem so threatening. It seemed… inevitable. Like the fading fall of star that had finally burned out.

And suddenly she knew what she was meant to do.

Dizzily, she climbed onto the stone wall, situating herself on its flat surface, her legs dangling motionless over the edge. One hand rested beside her, palm laying flat on the rough stone, the other holding tight to the diamond at her chest.

This was it, she thought numbly. This was the end. And the beginning.

At last—at last—there would be peace.

She thought of her friends. They were going to be angry in the morning. They were going to be furious, and confused, and heartbroken. But they would come to understand. They would forgive her eventually—and carry on, as they always did. She knew—she hoped—they would be all right.

She thought of her father. He'd be heartbroken, too. But unlike them, she knew he would never forgive her. She knew he would never forgive himself.

And then her thoughts turned to Draco Malfoy. She didn't know how he was going to react… what he would feel, or if he would even feel anything. With faint bitterness, she realized it didn't matter. She had never mattered to him.

She told herself that she was grateful for it—grateful that at least one person would be spared the senseless pain of mourning this.

Hermione closed her eyes, turned her face up to the autumn breeze. _Things will be different now…_

It was her final thought as she gently pushed herself forward and slid off the parapet. With a faded smile, she let herself become the falling star.


	5. The Reasons Why

_Saving You—DMHG. Hermione Granger has a secret, one that's literally killing her. Who will come to her rescue? What if the only one who can is Draco Malfoy? Rated M for sexual content (including rape), suicide ideation, and violence._

_Disclaimer—Most of the characters and a lot of the setting belong to J.K. Rowling. The rest is mine._

A/N: Last updated Dec. 4, 2009.

* * *

**:::The Reasons Why:::**

The Slytherin Dungeon was alive with animation, the dark space bright with noise. Draco had to practically force his way through the crowded common room, squeezing past the groups of laughing students.

He had almost forgotten about the Slytherin nightlife—a surprising thing, considering that not too long ago, he had been its driving force. He smiled, remembering the endless nights he'd spent as the prince of the party: friends huddling together, passing alcohol of every kind around the circle, toasting to long life and good sex; easy girls swarming the group, hanging on to the nearest hot body; dancing and fistfights; laughter, some boisterous, some breathy and hushed; the taste of alcohol and the smell of expensive perfume.

Things didn't seem to have changed much in his absence.

A sixth year girl whose name he couldn't remember smiled at him as he passed, moistening her bottom lip with her tongue, her eyes holding silent invitation. Draco nodded to her but continued on his way—and she nodded back, disappointed with his choice.

House legend spoke of Draco as some master seducer, but the truth was much, much simpler than that. There had never been much need to pursue women. _They_ pursued _him_. They flocked to him like sheep to a shepherd, followed him like puppies with their master, literally tripping over each other, eager for the chance to see if the rumors were true.

So, _carpe dium_—or rather, _carpe femme_! He had readily accepted every Hogwarts slut into his bed, engaging in the raunchiest sort of intercourse until the early hours of the morning. He would rise at dawn to sneak back from whatever dormitory he was in, not caring one bit about the woman he was leaving behind.

And they usually didn't care, either. Because the reality was that they had used him as much as he had used them... as a trophy, or a good story, or just for the certainty of a night's pleasure.

So the legend had been born of the Draco Malfoy who could seduce any woman and leave her without a thought, who could drink by the barrel and never _act _drunk, who had mastered the Dark Arts, and who would not think twice about using his craft against whoever dared to stand in his way. And the reality was something more and something less than that. His life _had_ consisted of sex, booze, and magic. In that, at least, things had been simple.

Or had _seemed _simple, anyway.

Arms wrapped around his abdomen, halting him in place. "Where do you think you're going?" a breathy voice asked, tickling his ear.

"Bed," he said tightly, unraveling the arms from around him.

Pansy pushed her way in front of him. "I could go with you," she offered, her heated gaze moving down his body. "It's been ages since we've been alone." She let a hand come to rest above his heart, rubbing against the muscle there. "You didn't seem to have any complaints the last time..."

The last—and only—time hadn't been as memorable as she obviously wanted to believe. All Draco knew was that he _had_ in fact slept with her—a fact he would have forgotten if not for the constant allusions she made to the event. The details of that night, however, were blurred in his mind, his memory of Pansy blended together with all the other girls…

"I'll pass, thanks," he said. He tried to get away, but her hand pushed him in place.

"I'm not too drunk, if that's what's stopping you," she told him with a sly smile, fitting her body to his. "I'm sober enough to know what I want. You don't have to be noble."

He could smell the smooth scent of cocktails on her breath, the stench only adding to his disgust. Had he really been attracted to women like this? "I'll forget to be noble if you don't get your hands off of me," he threatened. "And I promise you, Pansy, you _won't _like it."

Pansy's lush lips formed a pout, and she drew herself back. "No need to get touchy."

"I could say the same to you." His eyes looked dryly at the well-manicured hands that had only just been wrapped around him. He turned to flee the scene before she could lay them on him again.

"Oi! Malfoy! Where are you off to?" It was Goyle this time, moving through the chaos towards him, blocking his way to the special passageway to his dormitory.

"He wants to go to bed," Pansy informed him, back to her prim self as she came up from behind with crossed arms.

"What, _now_?" The larger boy laughed. "But it's barely twelve o'clock!"

"Yeah, come off it, Draco!" came Crabbe's voice. He appeared beside them, one giant hand slapping Draco's back, the other holding a bottle of firewhiskey to him. "Here—have a bottle of Ogden's. You can go back to playing Head Boy in the morning."

"You know I prefer Abbott," Draco said without emotion.

"No one supplied," Crabbe explained with a helpless shrug. "You were the only one who would bring that brand in. Too thick for some."

"And too expensive for the rest," Goyle joined in laughingly.

"Come on, Draco," Pansy urged, coming closer once again. "Stay for just a little while longer."

"I've got _business_ to attend to," Draco said. His voice was dead, and those imperial eyes demanded that he not be questioned.

He wasn't. Their faces grew serious, their heads bobbing obediently in understanding.

"Well… come back down when it's done," Crabbe ordered, smiling brightly.

"Yeah," Goyle joined in. He nudged Draco with one thick elbow. "What's a kingdom without its king?"

Draco nodded, but he knew he wouldn't be back. Playing the Slytherin Prince had been fun—or, at least, that's what he'd told himself. But it was curiously easy for him to walk away. He found he didn't miss that life much at all… not nearly as much as it seemed to miss him.

They would find someone new, he was sure. Someone just like him, bound by expectation to the empty nights of revelry. And maybe, like him, that boy would wake up one morning and realize that it had all been a waste of time… that maybe if he had just realized it sooner, he could've avoided the dark responsibility that began as soon as the party ended.

* * *

It was rounding on one o'clock when Draco finally reached his own room.

_Business_, he had said. It wasn't completely untrue. Going to his bag, he retrieved the two envelopes he'd received earlier in the day. He sat at the edge of his bed, tapping the thin packets against his leg.

He opened the larger envelope first, recognizing the fancy stationary and elegant script immediately.

_Draco,_

As he read he could almost hear his mother's cool, indifferent voice in his head.

_Everything is in place for your Joining Ceremony. It looks to be attracting everyone from polite society, and I have every expectation that it will be the year's grandest event._ _The only thing to be worked out is your engagement to the Parkinsons' girl. It would be best for everyone—especially us—to make it official, and soon._

_With best regards, Your Mother_

_The year's grandest event. _Draco smiled coldly. His mother could turn an _execution _into the social gathering of the season if she wanted to.

Narcissa Malfoy was a nineteenth century duchess in a twenty-first century world. Cool, regal and distant, her every decision was based on bloodlines, family names, and societal circles. Her days were spent writing letters, planning soirees, and having tea and crumpets with the other statue-women of high society—the other wives and mothers of the master race.

So Narcissa wanted her son to make the engagement official. The prince would finally have to bow down to the expectations of his rank: propose to a lady of blue blood, marry her, let her provide him with his heirs—_male_ heirs, to be precise. He would have to fulfill the plans that had been laid out for him decades before. He would have to follow his parents lead—and in their footsteps.

But Draco didn't want his father's life. He didn't want to be that man.

_Why is it we don't have a choice?_

He closed the card and slid it back into its envelope. He would work this _arranged marriage_ out in his own time. They could force everything else, but they wouldn't force that. Not until he reconciled himself to the idea of really _being_ with Pansy, of going to bed with her every night and waking up with her every morning.

Not until he reconciled himself to the idea of _not_ being with Hermione Granger.

The thought slipped into consciousness before his mind could deny it entry, materializing concretely for the very first time. _What do you want, _she had asked him. He knew the answer now, saw it with startling clarity.

He wanted _her_.

He put a hand to his head, wishing the words away. But the truth stuck. And he hated that he didn't hate it.

Jaw clenched, Draco took the other envelope into his hands. This one was smaller, and, unlike his mother's, had no fancy frill or decoration. With a frown, he ripped it open.

A cryptic message lived inside, one that had chills running down his spine.

_If you save her from her_

_she might save you from you._

_Tonight._

He swallowed. The tilted scrawl held no signature. An eerie kind of awareness ran through him. What did it mean? He read the words again, and then again, trying to make sense of them.

And then he looked up.

_Hermione…_

With long strides, he left his room, moving down the short corridor to the entrance of hers. The lion king growled, but he barely heard it. Something was wrong. Something was _very _wrong.

"Granger! Are you up?" he asked loudly, knocking against the portrait frame. There was no response, causing panic to swirl inside of him. He knocked harder. "Granger, are you in there?" he called, his voice raising, pleading. "Granger!"

"I say, Head Boy, is everything quite alright?" the portrait of Lady Barbara asked. Draco didn't answer. He wasn't listening.

_Save her from her... tonight…_

He searched his mind for the password he had heard not long before, plagued by the desperate feeling that he was running out of time. That _she _was running out of time.

It came to him in a flash. _I finish my journey._

"_Cursum perficio!_" he practically shouted.

The painting swung open and he all but ran inside. The room was dark, but he could see that the bed was empty, made up as if she'd never been in it to begin with. His legs carried him to her bathroom door. He thrust it open, but the room was dark and she was nowhere in sight—not in the shower stall or hidden behind the closed partition.

Instinct had him glancing to the tiles on the bathroom floor, to the place where he had first seen the shock of dark red blood. Like so many times before, the image flashed before his eyes. Only, this time the pool was larger—_growing_, slowly coating the entire ground.

He shook his head, pushing the picture away, pushing himself out of the room. He came back to the darkened bedchamber.

"Where are you, Granger?" he asked the empty space.

His answer was the touch of a gentle breeze against his face. His head snapped to the balcony door. He hadn't noticed before, but it was cracked open, letting the wind flow in and out of the room. He was out on the platform without another thought, pulling the door all the way open and rushing across the threshold.

But, again, Hermione was nowhere to be found.

He paced back and forth before coming to the parapet that fenced the balcony in. Staring out at the lake, he slammed his fist down on the strong stone, his breath tearing in and out. Where the _hell_ was she? What the _fuck _was going on?

The beautiful scenery was picture-perfect and still, not providing him with any of the answers he needed.

His gaze fell to the cliffs below.

And suddenly the world went quiet, still.

She was there, laid out along the rocky edge of one cliff, still and white as death, one arm dangling out over the steep precipice.

"Christ!"

Draco was all speed and motion. He was suddenly leaping over the parapet, pushing his broom under him, not knowing or caring how it had even gotten there. In the days that would follow, he wouldn't remember the flight down to her, the icy sting of wind as it whipped against his face, the shrill whistle of momentum as he sliced through the air.

He landed harshly, his feet smacking to the uneven rocks with painful force, rocking the gravel that had broken off from the cliffs above. Carefully, he set his broom against the towering wall of sandstone before turning to her.

His heart froze inside his chest. He thought—_was certain_—she was dead.

She was on her back with her face tilted to one side, her closed eyes arched toward the still lagoon. A dark pool of blood haloed her head. Red seeped into the cap sleeves of her gown, soaking the lace, and there were runs and tears in the long silk skirt. Her face was pale, her skin almost translucent in the moonlight. Her legs and arms were scraped and bruised, twisted in all the wrong ways, and one was suspended dangerously over the cliff's edge.

And there against her breast was the diamond necklace he'd had made just for her.

Swallowing, he knelt, pushing the terror away. Shakily he pressed two unsteady fingers against her throat, searching, praying for a pulse. A moment passed, and then he felt it, a light, weak beat against his hand.

"Alright," he breathed, sweat trickling down his temple. "It's okay. You're okay." He scooped her into his arms, trying not to jostle her, moving slowly to keep them both from tumbling off the narrow ledge and into the lake.

The race to the infirmary seemed to last forever, and though he was flying faster than he ever had before, it seemed his broom was going at snail-pace. The deadweight of Hermione in his arms was terrifying. He became aware of the gentle ooze of blood against his arm, making him sick, driving him out of his mind with fear.

He finally reached the hospital wing, yelling for Pomfrey, desperation in his voice.

She emerged with a gasp. "Put her on the bed," she ordered, rushing to the bedside. Draco laid her out and then stood back, watching with dark eyes as the nurse began to prod and probe at Hermione's broken body. "What happened?" she demanded.

"I don't know," he answered, rubbing his arm, smearing Hermione's blood along his skin. "I found her on the cliffs. She must have fallen from the balcony."

"That's a sixty foot drop, at least," Pomfrey said, dismayed. And then she shook her head worriedly. "Thank God the cliffs caught her. She'd never have survived if she'd hit the loch." Her hands lightly touched the space behind Hermione's ears. "Get me my wand—it's in the far drawer."

Face emotionless, Draco hurried to comply. She grabbed it from him and immediately began to work, pointing it at Hermione's head, then at her mouth, then at her heart.

"Mix bone regrowth potion," she commanded over her shoulder.

He was in a trance. There was so much _blood_… soaking her gold-brown curls, coating the smooth skin along her neck…

"Draco!" The sharp voice had him snapping back into reality. "You want her to live, don't you?" He nodded hesitantly, swallowed. "Then I need you to help me, alright?"

"Yeah. Alright."

"Okay. I want you to make _bone regrowth _potion. You know how to do that, don't you?" Without waiting for a response she pointed to the cabinets. "It's in the back."

Draco was grateful for something to do, some way to help. He busied himself with the potion. It was simple, like second nature now after years of Professor Snape—and Lucius Malfoy's—tutelage. Robotically, he mixed and blended, not letting his mind race or worry, numbing the swarm of questions and accusations that threatened to run through.

"Here," he said when the mixture was thick enough. "The potion."

"Put it on the table." Pomfrey wasn't rushed now, but her demeanor was still grave. "We can't use it just yet."

Draco looked to Hermione. Her face was peaceful, a painful contrast to the bloodied brokenness of her body. "Will she live?" he asked quietly, not taking his eyes from her.

Pomfrey shook her head. "I don't know. It isn't good," she said. "She's broken both arms, both legs… her left shoulder and wrist _and _ankle. Her left hand is shattered. Her tailbone is crushed." The woman sighed, sadness and exhaustion tingeing the sound. "Her head was cracked open, and she's lost a lot of blood. It's a miracle she's even alive, falling from a height like that. _Especially_ with her heart."

Draco kept his face like stone. He was afraid to ask, but he had to know. "Her heart?"

"It's in frail condition," she answered sadly. "I'd imagine that she's had trouble doing just about anything… walking, standing for long periods of time." There was a short silence. When the nurse spoke again, her voice was brimming with emotion. "It appears to me the poor thing's been starving herself."

The words had ragged emotion tearing through him, but none of it showed. The truth hurts… Wasn't that what people said? Well, he'd never known firsthand until this moment.

"What happens now?" he asked, his voice low.

"We wait. I've put a strong pulsing spell on her heart, so it will beat for her. I've stemmed the flow of blood from her head, but it will take time and a lot of potion to heal. And her bones… well, it will be a _painful_ process, but they'll mend." She sighed. "It will be a rough next couple of days."

"But she'll be okay?" _Please, God, let her be okay._

Madam Pomfrey moved to draw a hospital blanket over Hermione. "It's too soon to know anything for certain. Her bones will mend, and the head trauma can be reversed." She looked to Draco, her eyes serious. "But her heart is very weak. And she's half starved to death. It's going to make her recovery a lot more complicated—if, in fact, she makes it to recovery at all."

Draco ran a heavy hand through his hair, not at all comforted by the answer.

Pomfrey straightened, her face softening. "You should clean up," she told him after a while. "Get some sleep."

Draco shook his head. "No. Potter and Weasley…" He clenched his jaw, his gaze shifting from the nurse to Hermione. "They should know what's happened. They'll want to be here."

Madam Pomfrey nodded. "And then get some rest. You've had quite a night."

He nodded once and then turned to go.

"Mr. Malfoy." He paused, turned back. "You did a good thing tonight," she told him quietly. "If it wasn't for you, your friend would be dead."

Draco's gaze fell to Hermione, sleeping silently in her hospital bed. "She's not my friend." His voice was low, his eyes haunted. He began to back away. "I'll get Potter and Weasley."

He turned and was gone.

* * *

"_Can I go back to bed now?"_

Ron slumped down into the sofa, his tired eyes glaring at Harry.

"No," his friend answered without looking up from the page. "You haven't even read the article."

"You just _told _me what it's about." When Harry said nothing, he rolled his eyes. "Fine, I'll read it—_tomorrow, _when it's not the _middle_ of the _bloody _night!"

"Quit whining. You sound like a little girl."

Ron's eyes narrowed at that. "Fine." He grabbed the newspaper from him. "_Ministry loses contact with four more" _was written across the front page in bold black letters.

"Maybe it's a coincidence," he supplied tiredly after a moment, resting his head against the sofa back.

Harry sent him an annoyed glare. "It's not. It can't be."

"We couldn't just talk about this in the morning?" he tried again, his eyes squinting against the light from the fireplace.

"No."

Ron sighed. "I don't know, mate. Like I said the other day, being an Auror is risky work. There's a ton of people out to get them." He shrugged, opening the newspaper, turning to the sports page. "Not _everything _bad is the work of _You-Know-Who_."

Harry snatched the paper back. "I know that, _thank you_." He flipped back to the front page, studying it with a frown. "Don't you think it's just a little _too _coincidental that so many Aurors have just disappeared into thin air?"

"_Seven_," Ron quipped, "is not _that _many. And Aurors go out of contact and into hiding all the time. That doesn't mean they're missing necessarily. Look—it even says that on the page…" He looked at his friend with a tired smile. "I don't really think we're at the 'Wake Ron Up With Important News Phase' just yet, mate. Not the 'With Important News' part, anyway."

"_Very funny_," Harry said, punching the redhead hard in the shoulder. But he couldn't stop the smile that spread across his face. "This is why Hermione calls you insufferable."

Ron rubbed the sore arm. "Yeah, well, it takes one to know… one." The words started out with humor, but the laughter died in their eyes and the smiles faded from their faces.

_Insufferable_… She was that. Or rather, it was the way her eyes looked, how thin her body had become, that was insufferable. Unbearable.

"I'm going back to bed," Ron said finally, breaking the solemn silence. He stood, looked at his friend with a grin. "Wake me up again and I'll beat you to a bloody pulp."

"Like you could," Harry threw back.

Ron opened his mouth to retort, but fell quiet at the loud clicking sound that came from his right. Both boys turned to face the noise. It was coming from the door that led from Hermione's dormitory to theirs. What was she doing awake at this time of night…?

The bronze doorknob turned, and with narrowed eyes, they watched as the door was slowly pushed open. The man crossing the threshold was the last person they expected to see.

"_Ferret_," Ron growled. Both Gryffindors had their wands drawn and pointed at the intruder without a thought. "Just what the _hell _do you think you're doing?"

"Put your wands down."

Harry held the wand steady, studying his childhood enemy with a frown. Malfoy's always-pristine appearance was in total disarray. White-blonde strands of hair were thrown across his face, pieces stuck to his forehead, drenched in sweat. His clothes were wrinkled and messy, his left arm and shoulder soaked in… _blood_…

Ron must have noticed it, too, because he was suddenly wild. "What the _bloody hell_ are you playing at, Malfoy?" He began to push forward, but Harry shot out an arm to block him.

"What happened, Malfoy?" he asked quietly, fearing the answer. "What are you doing here?"

"Granger—"

"Is that _her_ blood?" Ron asked him, incensed. When Draco didn't answer right away, he pushed forward, taking hold of the boy's wrinkled collar and dragging him up. "What the _fuck_ is going on, Malfoy?"

"Ron, _stop_—" Harry ordered.

He didn't let go. "What did you do, Malfoy? _Where_ is Hermione?"

In an effortless instant, Draco had the tables turned, had his own wand in hand, the tip held steady against Ron's right cheek. "Back up, Weasley," he commanded, his tone threateningly low. Ron held firm. "I said—_back up_."

Harry grabbed his friend by the arm and pulled him back. "Let him speak."

Draco's jaw clenched, and he slowly lowered his wand. "Granger is in the infirmary," he told them quietly. Her two friends looked at each other, then back to Draco. "She's hurt," he illuminated, emotionless.

Ron and Harry instantly had the same thought.

_Get to her… Now…_

They began to run, not bothering to grab jackets or shoes, sprinting through the portrait and down the corridor to their friend.

Draco followed behind, but his steps were slow, heavy. There was no rush. His function in this ended where theirs began.

_She's not my friend…

* * *

_

Harry and Ron were sweating and out of breath when the reached the faraway hospital wing. "Hermione?" they asked shortly, looking to Madame Pomfrey. She pointed, and their eyes followed her finger to the place where their friend lay.

Swallowing, they slowly stepped to the bed, their eyes widening as they neared her. She was pale, lifeless, her white skin bruised with black and purple. A thin blanket covered her, but they could see the way her limbs twisted underneath. Dried blood was at her neck, on her shoulders, tangled in her soft brown hair.

"You can pull up chairs up, but I can't allow you to touch her," the nurse's voice came from behind them. "It could break her bones further."

Ron dragged a chair close to the bedside, his eyes silently watching the subtle rise and fall of her chest, needing to focus on the one thing that signified life.

"What happened?" Harry asked, standing a few feet back, afraid that if he was any closer he wouldn't be able to keep from taking her hand.

"She fell from her balcony," was the quiet response. "Draco Malfoy found her and brought her here." There was a short pause. "He saved her life."

Harry and Ron said nothing. They couldn't. Not when the painful picture of Hermione falling to her death was playing before their eyes.

Not when the haunting picture of her _jumping _to her death was playing before their eyes.

"Will she be alright?" Ron asked. "I mean will she… survive?"

"If her treatment goes according to plan," was the quiet answer. "But it's going to be a hard, painful recovery. And the fact that she's practically starved isn't going to help any. The strain it's caused on her heart is… well, it's quite severe."

The boys looked down guiltily at that, tears gathering in their eyes. How had they let things get this far?

"When will she wake up?" Harry asked.

Pomfrey shook her head. "I don't know," she said apologetically. "But the sooner... the better."

* * *

Draco watched the scene play out from his place in the shadows, his heart beating numbly within his chest. Silently, he picked up the broom he'd discarded during the rush and turned away. Away from the poignant display of loyalty, of devotion… of love.

He would never have that. Not with any of his Slytherin brethren, or the Death Eaters, or the Dark Lord. Not with his parents, or Pansy, or any of his paramours—and _certainly_ not with Hermione Granger.

Draco slipped from the room without a sound. Silently, he headed down the corridor to the staircase at the end—but a familiar voice stopped him just as began to climb the stairs.

"Malfoy."

He paused and stiffly, slowly turned to face Professor Snape. He didn't speak, just waited with dull eyes for the Potions master to speak.

"The headmaster told me what happened," Snape said finally. "Are you alright?"

"Perfect," Draco said back calmly.

Snape didn't argue, just assessed him with those dark, skeptical eyes. "The blood..." He nodded to the red that coated Draco's skin and clothes. "How much of it is yours?"

"None."

Snape nodded once, a single, solemn jerk of his head, before stepping back. "There's that, at least."

Draco's only answer was the tightening of his jaw.

There was a pause.

"He wants to talk to you," Snape told him after a while, presumably of Dumbledore. "He asked me to see you to the Head's office."

"Now?"

"Yes," Snape replied. "Immediately."

Draco's hands tightened into fists; the texture of dry blood had his eyes darkening, had him feeling desperate and restless—and impatient to escape.

Snape must have known or seen, because his unsympathetic eyes seemed to soften. "I'm sure he won't mind your disheveled appearance, Draco," he said quietly. "He understands the reason behind it."

The Head Boy said nothing. What the harebrained headmaster minded or understood remained to be seen. All Draco knew was that _he_ minded—the blood that smeared his skin and soaked his clothes, the broken girl he'd left in the infirmary bed, the dark eyes, lightless—and possibly _lifeless_—beneath lowered lids. All he knew was that he _didn't_ understand the reason behind it. Half of him was burning, screaming, desperate to know...

The other half was afraid of what the answer might be.

"If you'll come with me..." Snape's voice and eyes were masked again. He turned and began to slowly head back down the corridor, expecting—but not waiting—for Draco to follow.

With resentful eyes, he finally did, stepping down from that first stair and slowly going after, not bothering to try to catch up, instead keeping the distance between them. They walked through the corridors and up the staircases, reaching the seventh floor in silence.

The gargoyle statue watched them approach with a dull stone stare—a mirror image of Draco's.

"Licorice stick," the older man said in a monotone voice. Together, they watched as the creature came to life, hopping aside as the wall behind began to part.

Draco waited for the split sides to halt and spiral staircase to be revealed before numbly stepping forward. He didn't bid his favorite professor goodbye, didn't so much as send a grateful glance over his shoulder as he left him behind.

But once again, that quiet voice had him halting before he could reach the stairs.

"Malfoy."

Draco dutifully turned, waited.

Snape considered him with skeptical eyes. "I know what you did today wasn't easy," he finally said. "Doing the right thing never is." He waited a moment, crossed his arms. "I imagine your father and your friends won't be very pleased with this turn of events..."

"It isn't a turn of events," Draco answered without emotion. "I'm the same person I've always been and so is she."

Snape didn't argue, only continued to watch him with those dull, doubting eyes. "Professor Dumbledore is waiting," he said at last. "You should head up."

Draco obeyed, turning back, climbing onto the first step of the spiral staircase, and staring straight ahead as it carried him up to the oak door above. The heavy thing opened of its own accord, revealing the cluttered Head's office to his view.

Dumbledore sat across the circular room behind his executive desk, holding a troubled hand to his mouth as he concentrated on a piece of paper. He didn't look up, didn't appear to notice the Head Boy that waited patiently in the doorway.

"You wanted to see me, professor," Draco was forced to say when nothing happened and no one spoke.

The headmaster's gaze came up. "Oh. Draco. Please, please, come in." He beckoned his student inside.

Draco took a single step forward, but that was all.

"Forgive me for not seeing you there." Dumbledore took his half-moon glasses from his nose and pressed his wrinkled fingers to his eyes. "I've been experiencing some trouble contacting Miss Granger's family, and the severity of her condition demands that I connect with them at once. It seems I'll have to make an impromptu trip back to England." He shook his head slowly, the long white hair of his beard swaying below. "Perhaps it is for the best," he mused with a tired sigh. "Perhaps the news will be better received face to face..." He slid his little glasses back onto his face, adjusting them until they were perched comfortably before his eyes. "Anyway, I am afraid I'll have to make this conversation brief," he told they younger man, sitting back against the cushioned back of his chair. "I did want to see you before I left, though, Draco. More specifically, I wanted to thank you."

"For?"

"Your courage and quick thinking where this unfortunate situation was concerned," Dumbledore said seriously. He paused to consider the younger man, his sad, sparkling gaze taking in the sweat and dirt that hadn't completely dried, the blood that had soaked through fabric to the skin. "You must be exhausted," he observed softly after a moment. "Won't you sit?" He motioned to the seat on the other side of the desk.

"I'd rather not," Draco said stiffly.

Dumbledore nodded with a sad sort of smile. "Whichever is more comfortable," he stated gently. Another long pause fell before he went on. "I want you to know just how much your actions are appreciated. You went above and beyond the call of duty this morning, helping Miss Granger at high risk to yourself." The old professor carefully folded his hands together, diplomatically placed them on the surface of his desk. "That kind of selflessness is very rare," he told his student, "and, as I'm sure you'll find, not always encouraged the way it ought to be."

Draco didn't want encouragement. He didn't want the scrutiny that came before it. The world couldn't know why he'd really saved Hermione Granger. They could never learn the real reason he'd risked his life to save hers.

They could never find out that he actually _cared_.

"I was just doing my civic duty," he explained without emotion. "You did make me Head Boy, after all."

Dumbledore's eyes were bright, as if he knew that the composed justification was a desperate attempt to disguise the truth. "Yes, I did," he replied quietly. "And I imagine you've have had certain questions and reservations about that fact."

Draco was still. "I don't follow," he said, jaw clenched.

Dumbledore's smile was soft and somehow knowing. "Well, your father has some very prominent connections," he explained. "It's only natural to wonder if they're the reason you were chosen."

"And were they?"

The professor didn't answer right away. "I won't deny that Lucius did everything he could to tilt the scales in your favor," he said carefully. He watched the muscles in Draco's jaw tense at the words. "But I think you know enough about me to know that I am not the kind to be in anyone's pocket. While I've always been open to the recommendations that come my way, I don't make many concessions for the sake of politics. I only and always do what I think is right for this school and the people in it." He smiled. "I had my own reasons for giving you the position."

"And what were those exactly?" Draco asked guardedly.

Dumbledore tilted his head. "I thought you could do some good as Head Boy," he answered simply. "More importantly, I thought being Head Boy could do _you_ some good," he added. "I had a feeling I could rely on you. I had a feeling _she _could rely on you." He looked his student over with searching eyes. "Can she?" he asked seriously after a moment.

Draco didn't answer—which was answer enough.

Dumbledore nodded in apparent understanding. "I'm aware that you have quite a complicated relationship with Miss Granger," he told the boy. When Draco's eyes sharpened, the headmaster smiled. "I mean, it's no secret that the two of you have had your differences," he clarified carefully. But the twinkle in his eyes said that he knew everything, even the secrets that Draco hadn't quite figured out for himself—the unwanted feelings, newly awakened and still undefined. "It's because of the strain between you that I am so humbled by your actions," the professor went on. "I admire what you did for her, Draco," he told him. "I admire that you didn't think twice about doing it."

Draco's eyes were shadowed as they met Dumbledore's. "How can you be so sure I didn't?" he asked darkly.

The headmaster's lips tilted up into a wistful smile. "Because she didn't have time to spare," he informed the younger man gently. He watched Draco swallow heavily, watched the stone look in his eyes go raw for just a second before deadening again. "I am awarding Slytherin House one hundred points on your behalf. Your heroism must be acknowledged and rewarded."

Draco stood stoic, listening to the quiet praise with no emotion on his face. The points didn't feel like a prize. He didn't _feel _like a hero. He'd done what he'd had to do, what she had _forced_ him to do. She hadn't given him a choice.

"You don't need to worry about classes," Dumbledore continued. "I'm having your professors informed that you are to be excused for the day. After such a stressful night, I'm sure you'll want to rest." The old man peered at his Head Boy curiously. "Is there anything else you need?" he asked with a questioning gaze.

_Answers..._

"No," he said instead, speaking only in half-truth. There was nothing he wanted that the headmaster could give him. For what he needed, he would have to go straight to the source. He would have to hear the words straight from her—would shake them out of her if he had to, just as soon as she got well again.

She _would_ get well again... wouldn't she?

"In that case, I'll let you go," Dumbledore replied. "I'm sure you're eager to shower and change—and I have an urgent visit I need to make. Both of us should probably be on our way." He smiled at the younger man, whose stone eyes were haunted and staring straight ahead. "You are excused," he told him gently.

Draco said nothing, only sent one last dark look his professor's way and turned...

And then suddenly turned back, hesitated.

Dumbledore frowned. "Was there something else?" he asked.

Draco swallowed. It was a while before he spoke. "Should I have?" he finally asked the older man.

The headmaster looked at him curiously over his half-moon glasses. "Should you have what?"

Draco's silver gaze was stormy. "Thought twice," he said.

Dumbledore's frown slowly angled upward. "I think you know the answer to that," he told the younger man quietly.

Draco waited another moment before turning to leave. The headmaster's voice halted him just before he reached the oak door.

"She's going to be alright, you know. You both are," he told him.

Draco didn't answer. He continued out of the office without looking back.

* * *

Harry and Ron sat at her bedside until morning sun streamed through the windows. She hadn't moved at all, except for the gentle rising and falling of her breasts. The silence was brutal, leaving both boys to their tortured thoughts.

"What time is it?" Ron asked, lifting his head from where it rested on the bed.

Harry looked at his watch. "Almost eight," he sighed. He sat back, his wearied gaze on Hermione. "They'll want us to go to class," he told his friend. "Do things normal."

"Yeah, like that's really gonna happen." The passion in Ron's voice was quieter than usual, a new sadness breaking in. He sighed, resting his hand on the bed next to Hermione's, wanting so badly to take it in his. "I'm not leaving here 'til _she _does."

Harry nodded, rubbed his neck. There were so many questions and so few answers. What had changed her? How had the Hermione they'd known slipped so far away? Every day had been a battle… to try to get her to eat, to smile, to talk. And it seemed that every time he'd thought it couldn't get any worse, it had.

"Ron, Hermione couldn't of…" He swallowed. The words tasted bitter in his mouth, as if he had ingested acid. "Ron, there's no way she could have _fallen_ off that balcony."

Ron looked down, and was silent for a moment. "I know, mate," he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. "You don't have to say it." He didn't want to hear the words out loud, didn't know how to handle them.

"Why did she…" Harry broke off, choking up. He shook his head, tears pressing at the back of his eyes. "Why didn't we stop her?"

Ron put his head in his hands, not knowing what to say.

They sat that way, silent and sad, until the nurse came in.

"We're not leaving," Ron said firmly before the woman could even speak.

"Come on, Ron," Harry said tiredly. "Let her talk."

Madam Pomfrey smiled gratefully at him. "I've spoken with the headmaster and he agrees that it would be best if both of you, as well as Mr. Malfoy, take the day to rest." Her gaze turned apologetic. "Unfortunately, I'm going to have to ask you to leave the infirmary—"

The boys opened their mouths to argue.

"_Just_ for today." They were glaring at her, and she smiled sympathetically, understanding their frustration. "Hermione needs some heavy-duty work. And I'm sorry to say that you'll only be in the way."

"_But—_"

"Listen, boys, I understand you want to be here for your friend. But if you really want to help her, you're going to have to trust me."

Harry's gaze fell on Hermione, and he waged an inner battle. "Fine," he said at last, standing from his chair.

"But, Harry—"

"I said _fine_." He looked at Ron, took a breath. "We need to listen to Madam Pomfrey." His eyes moved to their best friend, to her sleeping face, the mess of curls around her shoulders. "We need to do what's best for Hermione."

Ron looked reluctantly at their friend, and with a sigh, he stood as well.

"Thank you both," Pomfrey said, relief evident in her voice. She had obviously thought they would put up a harder fight. "Take the day to rest. You've had a hard night." She smiled softly. "And you're more than welcome to return again tomorrow. Hopefully by then she'll be awake."

The boys nodded, and with one last look at Hermione, they walked from the wing, entrusting their friend into the nurse's care.

* * *

It had been a sleepless night, but Draco wasn't tired. The hot shower he'd taken had done nothing to calm him, and though his body was cleansed and draped in fresh clothes, he could still feel Granger's warm blood against his skin. The aftershocks of adrenaline were finally starting to ease, leaving pure ice in his veins.

Soon, the school would be alive with chatter. Hermione's "fall" would be the topic on everyone's mind and in everyone's conversations. The gossipmongers would concoct stories of all kinds, absurd theories about how everything had happened.

Would anyone figure out that she hadn't fallen at all? Would anyone know that she had _jumped_ from that balcony?

"Draco, darling, we just heard." Pansy was wrapping her arm around his, tilting her head against his shoulder. His Slytherin subjects were suddenly around him, blocking his path. "Is it true, what they're saying?"

Draco looked dull. "I don't know. What are they saying?"

"That you saved that mudblood bitch," Goyle filled in, his smile amused. There was a hum of quiet laughter, as if they thought it a good joke. "So is it true?"

Draco grinned humorlessly, searching for patience. "If that's what they're saying."

"So why'd you do it?" Crabbe asked, hoping for a good story. "Why'd you help her?"

Blaise Zabini was unsmiling as he pushed his way to the front of the crowd. "Yeah, Malfoy." His arms were crossed and his voice was anything but amused. "Tell us. Why _did _you do it?"

Draco's jaw clenched. "If there was something to confess, I'd consult a priest," he said through his teeth.

The group looked contrite at backlash from their prince. Blaise was the only one to put on a smile. "A story for another time, then," he said dryly, coming forward. "Come on, people. Give the man some room." He ushered Draco through the crowd. "He _is _a hero after all."

That earned some laughter. With shaking heads, the group dispersed.

The smile was gone as soon as the people were. "You said you had it under control," Blaise reminded him, lowering his voice. "But it couldn't be any more out of hand."

"_Out of hand?_" Draco spat. "Should I have let her die?" He shook his head, his jaw tight. "You would have done the _exact _same thing I did," he accused.

"Yes. I would have," Blaise agreed easily, looking him straight in the eyes. "But I wouldn't have done it for the same reasons. And that means that it isn't the same at all." He pushed his bag higher onto his shoulder, shrugging when Draco looked away. "It's your choice, mate," he told his friend. "But you're going to have to live with it."

Draco smiled bitterly, watching as Blaise walked away. Didn't they know he'd hate her if he could? Couldn't they see he no longer knew how?

_Why is it we don't have a choice?

* * *

_

Harry and Ron walked slowly through the corridors, totally deflated. People were stopping and staring, whispering under their breath, wondering if it would be crossing the line to ask them what had _really_ happened, if it was _really _true.

"Harry! Ron!" Ginny was running towards them, tears streaming down her face. She reached them, immediately going into her brother's arms for comfort. "I just heard," she said. "Is she okay? Will she be okay?"

"It's hard to tell, Gin," Ron told her, rubbing her back.

"But what _happened_?" she asked, swatting the moisture from her cheeks.

"She somehow fell from her balcony onto the cliffs. We don't know the details."

Ginny pushed a hand through her red hair, sniffed. "What a nightmare." She rested her head against Ron's shoulder, wiping away more tears. "I never thought I'd say this, but thank _God_ for Draco Malfoy."

The boys looked at each other. Yes… thank God for Draco Malfoy.

"Are they making you go to class?" Ginny asked.

Harry shook his head. "They told us to take the day to… rest."

As if they could, after everything that had happened.

Ginny nodded, swallowing emotion. "Well, I've… damn it, I've got to get to class," she said, hugging Ron close, and then Harry. "But please… keep me updated. I need to know she'll be okay."

They nodded, and then watched her disappear down the corridor.

"I'm going back up to bed," Ron said after a while. "And at least _try _to get some sleep."

Harry nodded. "I'll be up in a while," he said. "I want some air." He looked at Ron. "I just need to think."

Ron put a hand on Harry's shoulder, squeezed in support. "I understand."

Harry walked with no particular destination in mind. He ended up sitting in the courtyard, letting the cool morning air chill the heat inside of him.

How had this happened? How had he let it?

* * *

Draco was rushing to class, already late. The day had been offered up to use as he wished, and he'd chosen what he considered the lesser of two evils: to resume life as usual. What would he do by himself but think about _her_? At least this way he could focus on something else.

Or, at least, _try _to focus on something else.

He hadn't foreseen the excitement his actions would cause among his fellow students. It seemed that the entire Slytherin community had come to pester him with jokes and pelt him with questions. And it had taken all of his patience not to pound every one of them into the floor.

He cut through the courtyard, hoping to avoid any stray students lingering in the corridors. There was someone there, but Draco didn't spare him a glance. It wasn't until he was stepping back into the open hallway that the man called his name.

"Malfoy."

He turned to face the familiar voice, gritting his teeth. It was Potter, looking about as beat up and worn out as he felt.

"What?" he asked, the word coming out impatient.

Harry stepped forward, his emerald eyes serious as they met with Draco's steel ones. He was silent for a moment. And then the words came—two simple words that were anything but simple.

"Thank you."

It was all he would say, all he _could _say.

Draco was still. And then he nodded once and continued on his way.

* * *

Madam Pomfrey worked the day away, mixing potions and preparing spells for the unconscious girl.

"Any improvement, Poppy?" came a soft, serious voice from behind her.

She turned, shaking her head sadly. "I haven't applied anything too heavy just yet," she told the headmaster. "It's taken me half the day just to mix the proper potions." She crossed her arms. Together, they considered the sleeping student. "Have you reached the girl's family yet?" she asked after a moment.

Dumbledore nodded mutedly. "Yes."

"And are they on their way?"

Dumbledore looked at the woman, his blue eyes sparkling with tried patience. "I was informed by the mother that Hermione is extremely accident-prone," he told her. "She was sure that the girl would 'shake it off', as she apparently always has before—and, unfortunately, nothing I could say about the critical nature of her daughter's condition could persuade the woman to leave her business conference in Australia."

The nurse shook her head in disgust. "Just despicable. And the father?"

Dumbledore forced a smile. "He won't be coming, either," was all he would say. He didn't tell the nurse that Hermione's father had been distraught with the news, and desperate to see his ailing daughter. He didn't tell her that, after careful deliberation, it had been _he _who had decided not to allow it.

Pomfrey sighed. "Well, at least she wasn't alone. Ron Weasley and Harry Potter were with her all night." She shook her head, watching the girl with sympathetic eyes. "It's a good thing she has friends so dedicated to taking care of her," she mused. "It doesn't seem like she gets much of that at home."

Dumbledore looked to Hermione's unconscious form. "Indeed."

Another wistful moment went by before Pomfrey turned to her settling potions. "I should administer the first dose," she said, taking one thick concoction into her hand. But Dumbledore put a hand on her shoulder, halting her before she could near the bedside.

"Give her Sweet Fennel and Hyssop first," he commanded on second thought.

Pomfrey frowned. "Cleansing herbs," she reflected. "You think she's been cursed?"

Dumbledore looked at her seriously. "One can never be too careful, Poppy," he told her. "It's better to take precautions. We wouldn't want to risk any of your medicines jumbling up with spells we don't know are already on her." His gaze moved to Hermione. "A negative reaction might harm her further."

Pomfrey shook her head at her mistake. "I didn't think to suspect. But you're right, of course. Better safe than sorry." She turned to one of the many cupboards. "I have some flowers freshly picked," she told him. "I'll blend a tea."

* * *

Draco walked from his classroom, knowing immediately where he was headed to next. Don't go to the infirmary, he told himself. _Stay away_ _from her_. But it was no use. His legs were carrying him to the hospital wing before he could direct them to do anything else.

He had thought that his classes might distract him from his thoughts. But no matter how long he sat or how intently he listened, they had stayed there at the forefront of his consciousness. Boring lectures had made it easy for his mind to wander... to travel back to the night before, to the pale-white girl bathed in blood and moonlight. Even with all her strange behavior, he had never in his life imagined that she would… that she could…

He shook his head, wanting to shake the thoughts away—failing to do so.

He hadn't taken notes in class. Instead, his quill had made empty swirls on the page, unconscious doodles that meant nothing except that his thoughts were far away from the professor at the front of the room. And without knowing it, his hand had written down words, a message from his subconscious fighting to escape.

_Things will be different now._

He'd crumpled the paper up in his hand the instant he realized what he'd written. But for some odd reason, he couldn't throw the parchment away. Instead, it stayed where it was, balled up in his fist.

He stepped silently into the hospital wing, moving quietly, praying he would stay unnoticed. There was a rolling trolley by the entrance already covered in get-well cards and flowers. A stuffed animal holding a heart sat at the center of all the notes, it's beady eyes glaring at Draco as if it somehow knew he didn't belong there.

He didn't come bearing gifts or cards or stuffed toys. He didn't have any flowers for her. He didn't have _anything_ for her—never would.

His fist involuntarily tightened around what should have been his class notes. It was nothing but trash, a scrap of doodles that anyone could see was worthless. But within those swirls of nothing there was _something_… that message from within that had appeared before he'd known what he was writing.

On an impulse, he placed the crumpled paper on the table amongst the other cards and gifts. He had no frilly words for her, no flowery hopes. Just the hard truth.

_Things will be different now..._

He turned to leave, knowing that he'd already stayed too long. But his legs wouldn't move. He turned back, his eyes moving to the place where he knew she rested. All he needed was one minute alone with her, a glimpse of her, just to assure himself that she was still breathing.

A screen was up that hadn't been there the night before, creating a white wall around Hermione. There were shadows playing against it, signaling movement behind the divider. The nurse was there with someone, though who it was, Draco couldn't tell.

"The tea should take effect any moment," he heard Pomfrey say quietly to whoever was with her. One silent minute passed.

And then he heard her gasp, the sound quick and horrified. "Dear God! What's _happened _to her?"

Draco's brows furrowed. His heartbeat picking up, he moved ever so slowly towards the screen, silently, stealthily peered around it.

What he saw there stopped his heart, made it ache.

_Beautiful…_

Hermione's naked body lay still above the sheets, the smooth, soft skin of before disfigured by heavy scarring that slashed over and into almost every inch of flesh.

_There's always more…_

And suddenly, the puzzle pieces were falling into place. The blood in the bathroom, the starvation, last night's death-scare. _This_ was the secret she'd been guarding so fiercely. _This_ was what she'd been hiding from him, from the world.

The answers were coming with startling clarity, and only one question remained.

_Why?_

Draco backed away, sure that if he didn't move now, the sight of her would bring him to his knees.

He walked from the infirmary with some of the answers he'd wanted so desperately. But he'd been right—they didn't bring any sense of closure. In closing one door, another had been unlocked—one that led to a much harder, much darker than he ever could have expected.

And he knew without having to think about it that he would venture through that door. His need to figure out Hermione Granger—and to protect her—was there inside of him a thousand-fold.

"It was a Concealment Spell," Pomfrey said sadly, her eyes watery with unshed tears. "To hide the scars."

Dumbledore nodded, bringing his hand to gently cup the top of Hermione's head. "Work quickly," he instructed, his voice quiet. "And replace the spell when you're done."

Pomfrey nodded, her sad eyes glued to Hermione.

"And of course, Poppy, I can trust you to keep this discovery to yourself."

The nurse looked at him, understanding. "Of course."

* * *

Madam Pomfrey began to administer the bone regrowth potion later that night, deciding that it was best to deal with the painful treatment while Hermione was still unconscious. She had obviously been through enough, and if one more sleepless night meant less pain for the girl, she would work through the sunrise.

"I'm sorry," she whispered to the sleeping student, bringing the thick potion to her pale lips. She helped the girl swallow it down, hoping to God that she wouldn't feel the agony of her bones setting and growing through her unconscious state.

Hermione moaned, brining tears to the nurse's eyes for the second time that day. So she _could _feel it. Sighing sadly, Pomfrey fed more to the girl.

It was going to be a long night...

Hermione was swimming through fire. Her body was flowing through an endless sky of flames, the red heat absorbing into her flesh, burning away her muscles, soaking her bones. Pain like none she'd ever felt before was taking hold, exploding through her in bright flashes and scalding waves.

Had the miracle of _feeling_ been reincarnated within her? Was that what this blazing agony meant? Had she been forgiven? Revived? Restored?

Was this heaven?

"It must be so painful," a sad voice said, reaching her in waves.

_Yes, _she thought with a smile. Pain was enveloping her body, bringing her back to a time when she could actually _be_ hurt, and sad… and happy. A time when she'd been a girl instead of a shadow, a time before the numbness, a time when she'd been able to _feel_…

Was this the part of dying where her life flashed before her eyes? Would these feelings disappear again, as they always did? Was heaven like the earth below, numb and heavy and without direction?

She began to fight, swinging her arms, kicking her legs. She didn't want heaven, not if it meant losing this feeling. She'd rather dwell in the fire-agony of limbo than travel to the white clouds of nothing.

"Stop, Hermione!" Madame Pomfrey held Hermione's shoulders, trying to stop her body from thrashing. "I know it's painful, but you have to be still!"

Hermione heard the words through the snap and sizzle of flames. They thought she wanted to end the pain. They couldn't understand the need to hold on, the desperation to stay in it forever.

But after what seemed like hours of fighting, the pain eased, leaving her empty once again.

And then there was a voice, a soft echo from far away.

"Wake up, Hermione. Please… _wake up_."

* * *

Hermione parted her eyes, blinking them open, her vision blurry with sleep. Morning light blinded her, and she moaned slightly, finding her throat dry and scratchy.

"Mione?" a familiar voice asked tentatively. "Hermione, can you hear me?"

Another short moaning sound came from her throat, the only answer she could provide. There were sighs of gratitude. The sound of relieved laughter reached her ears.

Was this some sort of dream? Or was she…

_No_… she couldn't be…

"Don't worry, Mione. Everything's going to be fine. You're back… safe with us."

She _couldn't_ be _alive!_

She felt hands wrapping around both of hers, warming them. The pain was gone from her bones, from her body, leaving the numb exhaustion she had come to associate with life.

How could this have happened? How could she be here, back in this nothing world?

"I'm sorry, you two, but you're going to have to get on to class," another voice said. "You can visit with Hermione again after school."

Hermione felt two sets of lips press against her forehead, but she couldn't open her eyes to see to whom they belonged. "We'll come back," a voice promised close to her ear.

It took Hermione many minutes to work up the strength to open her eyes again. When she did, her sight was clouded.

"Miss Granger." Someone came to her bedside, and she had to blink a few times to clear her vision. It was Madam Pomfrey she realized after a moment. She was in the infirmary at Hogwarts, in a hospital bed. "Hermione, can you talk at all?"

Hermione took a breath, cleared her throat. "Yes," she said finally, her voice scratchy and weak.

Madam Pomfrey smiled. "Good. Here—I have some water for your throat." The nurse held a cup to her lips, and with difficulty she swallowed the liquid down. "Is that better?"

Hermione nodded tiredly.

"Good," Pomfrey said again. "Can you sit up a bit more if I help you?"

Hermione nodded again. Pomfrey reached for her shoulders and helped prop her up against the pillows, letting them support her back. "I have some tea here for you. I know your bones and head probably ache—"

"They don't," she interrupted, her voice a whisper.

"Really?" the nurse asked, surprised. "You... aren't sore at all?"

"Not at all," Hermione told her, shutting her eyes again. How she wished she was. But where fire-pain had engulfed only hours before, there was nothing, not even the slightest sting. Like every other feeling, the flames had faded away.

Pomfrey frowned. "If that's the case, we can forego the medicine," she said, putting the steaming teacup down. "You took quite a spill," the older woman added, busying herself by tucking the ends of the blankets under the mattress. "You were very lucky that Mr. Malfoy found you when he did."

"Malfoy?" Hermione asked, cracking one eye open.

"Yes. He saved your life."

* * *

As time passed, Hermione sat quietly in the hospital bed. _He saved your life… _Those four words were floating around and around inside her head, making her feel strange. There was a dull sadness in her, but more than that, there was confusion. Confusion and something else, some disconcerting emotion she couldn't name.

The nurse fed her some broth and bread, hoping to give her strength. "Your friends have stopped by with cards and flowers," she said conversationally as she spooned more soup from the bowl. "There are some really lovely ones. Here—I'll bring them closer. You can read the notes. It might help you pass the time."

The woman pushed the trolley forward, began to back away. And then paused. "A lot of people care about you, Hermione," she informed the frail girl seriously.

Hermione didn't say anything. She waited for the nurse to continue on her way before she slowly reached out a hand, taking the first of what seemed like a hundred get-well letters. There were candies and cards from her Gryffindor friends. Ginny, Harry, and Ron had all brought her flowers with notes that begged her to never scare them like this again attached to the vases. Her Halloween Dance date, Brandon Madison, had written a very elegant note. And every single Wesley had sent their best regards.

But not a single word made her smile. They only succeeded in making her feel worse.

Hermione's eyes fell to a crumpled piece of parchment. It was resting in the corner, looking out of place among the colorful flowers and the fancy cards that stood on their folded edges.

She reached for it with a frown, opening it up, smoothing it out. There were swirls of ink all over the page, looping and twirling, as if its maker's mind had been unfocused or far away. Hermione traced the circles with her finger, feeling an odd sort of connection to it, to the distance it represented—to the person who had drawn it and felt that distance, too.

And then her finger found the heart; a messy bit of scrawl lay within the dark rings, relaying a message that had her eyes turning sad.

_Things will be different now._

She knew the words, knew their owner. Her hand involuntarily went to the diamond at her throat, surprised to find that it was still there in one piece. How strange that it had been the only part of her to remain unbroken…

There was one more note she hadn't read, a tiny card that also lacked decoration. She tore open the plain envelope, looked over the words.

_Only you decide. You do have a choice._

It wasn't signed. Who was it from? What did they know? Hermione laid her head back against the pillows and closed her eyes again. She wished the stranger's message could be true.

But it couldn't. She didn't decide. She would _never_ have a choice.

* * *

Harry and Ron returned to the hospital wing after school, both of them eager to see their friend.

"How is she?" Ron asked the nurse as they stepped inside.

Pomfrey was folding blankets and placing them in the cupboards. "Better," she answered, her voice quiet. "Her bones have healed, and she insists that there's no pain. And her heart is finally beating on its own."

They looked over to Hermione, who was resting at the other side of the wing. "I'm permitting her to return to her own dormitory, where she can be more comfortable," the woman continued. Both Harry and Ron were smiling from ear to ear. "_However_," the nurse added warningly, "she will be confined to bed rest until I say otherwise. And if I find out that she's being subjected to any overexcitement or stress, I will move her back here immediately where I can keep my eye on her."

They nodded obediently, and began to head to their friend when Pomfrey stopped them. When she spoke next, her voice was lowered to a whisper, as if to prevent others from hearing. "If she doesn't regain her strength, her heart _will _give out," she told them. "We'll all need to work to make sure that doesn't happen."

Harry and Ron looked at each other. In other words, they needed to take care of her_…_ something they should have been doing all along. Maybe if they had, none of this would have happened.

"We understand," Harry said seriously.

They walked to Hermione's bedside together, more somber than they'd been when they'd first entered.

"Hermione?" Madam Pomfrey asked gently.

She opened her eyes, taking a deep breath in and out.

"You're friends are going to return you to your dormitory, where you can rest in your own bed like we talked about."

Hermione nodded, the movement tired and slight.

Harry moved closer. "I'll take her. Ron, you grab her stuff," he said, motioning towards the cards and candy. Gently, he picked her up, holding her as lightly as possible. She sagged in his arms, her head falling to his shoulder.

"We're almost there," Hermione could hear him saying. "Just down this corridor and up a few more stairs..."

* * *

Draco snatched a book from its place within the bookcase, frustrated. He had thought that the answers would bring closure, had thought that they would somehow wrap up the past few weeks in a neat little bow. He had thought they would feed his fixation, allowing both of them to go back to the way things used to be...

But _this_… God, those scars… They had him steeped further in questions, in mystery, in _her_. If he'd ever had a chance of breaking the thrall she had on him, it was long gone now. The sight of her broken, lifeless body completely covered in scars, had had the hunger to understand her taking an even tighter hold.

He sat at the far end of the common room table, opening the book, wanting to think about anything else.

The portrait swung open, and his head snapped up, his eyes alert.

Weasley came in first, his arms overflowing with flowers and candy—and that _damn_ stuffed toy that had goaded Draco into leaving the stupid scrap of paper.

Then Potter came through, cradling a drowsy Hermione Granger in his arms.

The room went still, the boys watching each other guardedly. Harry was first to break the silence. "Hermione's back," he informed the blond-haired man, staying in the entrance.

"I can see that, thanks," Draco snapped. He softened, however, his gaze gentling as it moved to her. "How are you?" he asked, searching her face, his voice quiet.

"Fine," she answered quietly, finally.

A silent moment passed, and then he nodded once, forcing himself to turn back to the book.

The boys moved through the room, carrying Hermione under the archway, through the lion painting to her bedroom. The long, regal drape was pulled back from the far wall, midday autumn sun shining in through the glass. Ron immediately went forward to one bedside table, beginning to organize her get-well gifts there. But Harry was frozen for just a second, his green eyes staring hauntedly out onto the balcony.

"Harry..." Ron prompted quietly, noticing his friend.

Harry awoke from his trance. Moving across the room, he laid Hermione down on the soft mattress of her bed, pulling the covers up over her, tucking the blankets around her body. And then he turned briskly, yanking the tasseled rope that drew the red curtain across the windowed wall—to keep out the light so she could sleep, he told himself. But really, it was for his own sake, to keep that balcony from his sight, to shield himself from the prevailing image of his friend climbing over that parapet and sailing with open eyes to the jagged cliffs below.

"We have quidditch practice, but if you want us to stay...?" He left the sentence open-ended, looking at her with questioning eyes.

Hermione shook her head, smiled tiredly. "I'm okay," she assured them. "You guys go ahead."

They looked uncertain, but nodded. "We'll try to be back to check on you afterwards," Ron said, leaning down to kiss her forehead.

"And remember what Pomfrey said. No getting out of bed," Harry said, doing the same. They smiled at her, slowly heading for the door.

Hermione closed her eyes, resting them. "Oh, and Mione." She opened them again, slowly. "We love you."

Hermione gave them a tired smile. "I love you, too."

But as soon as they were gone, the smile was, too. She was cold, exhausted. Shifting her eyes to the bedside table, she frowned. Ron had set up the countless cards and candies in pretty piles and rows. It wasn't even half of what she'd received; the boys would have to bring up the rest when they got the chance.

She hoped they would forget. She didn't want the guilt that came with the lovely gifts and pretty words.

_Beautiful…_

She heard a knock and looked up as Malfoy let himself in, her insides instantly twisting with nerves. What he'd done for her had changed things. There was a new dynamic yet again. And like the last, she wasn't sure whether to be grateful or furious. Like the last, she found she could be neither.

There was silence, both of them watching each other.

"You're wearing your necklace," he observed quietly after a while.

Automatically, her hand went to the cool diamond. She said nothing.

"It fits you," he told her, studying the way it blended with her skin—smooth skin that was secretly stained with scars. "You wear it well."

There was another long silence. "What do you want, Malfoy?" she asked at last.

He said nothing at first. "I want to know why," he told her finally.

"Why what?" she asked warily, but she already knew.

Another pause. He stepped closer, his feet bringing him to the side of the bed, stopping only when he was standing over her. She looked up at him, swallowing, watching as his silver eyes went dark. "Why you did it," he said quietly. "Why you jumped."

"I didn't," she denied, the confrontation she saw coming already leaving her exhausted. "I was sitting on the parapet. I lost my balance." Always more lies, more secrets. That's all that life was, all that _she_ was. "Don't try to make it out to be more, Malfoy. Don't try to make me more mysterious than I am."

"You're not a mystery," he agreed calmly. "I can see right through you. Which is why you should stop lying to me, Granger." His voice was low, but his eyes were hard. "I know you didn't lose your balance. Not by accident, anyway." His gaze narrowed, watching her carefully. "I've seen your scars…"

Her eyes closed at that, and she turned her face away. So he _could_ see through her, right to the ugly truth that remained beneath.

"There's always more." His hand reached down, dared to take her chin, gently forcing her eyes back to his. "What more is there, Granger?" he asked her meaningfully.

_If anyone could uncover her secrets, it was Draco Malfoy…_

He had seen her, the real her, the one that lay hidden beneath the spell. The shame was undeniable, but so was the relief. Honesty was a double-edged sword, piercing her heart, making her bleed the dirty blood within her.

_And she was clean. She could start tomorrow clean…_

She swallowed, making her decision, not having a choice. "Help me up," she commanded, holding out her hand.

His jaw worked. "I don't think that's a good idea," he told her quietly, aware of the unsteady way her frail fingers trembled.

Hermione nodded hauntedly. "I know it's not." She smiled warily when his dark eyes narrowed. "Are you going to help me up, Malfoy, or do I have to do it myself?"

Reluctantly, he took her arm and carefully helped her to stand. She wavered a bit, unsteady on her feet, and he was forced to hold her against him to make sure she didn't slither to the floor. He gritted his teeth at the feel of her. God, but she was skin and bones!

Hermione swallowed, feeling weak—wondering if it was her body's reaction to the fall or the way it fit so easily, so securely against his.

She shook her head a little, smiled bitterly at her own ridiculous thoughts. It was the lightheadedness, she decided. It must be making her a little delirious.

Shakily, she pointed the tip of her wand ahead of her, hating what she was about to do, dreading what she was about to let him see. "_Memoria prodigium_," she whispered hesitantly. A liquid rectangle appeared before them, as wide and long as their bedroom doors.

Draco shook his head. "What is this?" he asked her, not understanding.

"A memory," she told him with a sad smile. She could feel his skeptical gaze on her profile, and wanted more than anything for him to look away. But there was no getting around it now. He was about to see more of her anyone ever had. "Go on," she whispered. "Walk through it. The door will be there when it's time to come back."

A thousand questions entered his brain. Where did the door lead? What would he find?

He didn't ask. The answers were waiting for him on the other side. He could feel that.

He stepped forward, and she wound her thin arms around one poster of the bed, letting it support her wavering form.

"You're not coming?"

Hermione shook her head. "It won't change anything," she told him quietly. He looked back at her. "Go," she commanded tiredly. "Before I change my mind."

Draco stared at the door a minute before stepping forward. With one last cautious glance over his shoulder, he crossed through the liquid portal.

On the other side was a place he didn't recognize, a house belonging to someone he didn't know. The room was silent, as if no one lived there. He walked around, entering room after room, looking for something to tell him where he was and why he was there.

The walls were all crisp white, with white borders. The furniture was patterned, each cushion and armrest upholstered to match as a set. It was worlds apart from his own home in the country: it was smaller, brighter, quainter. There was none of the expensive, unnecessary antiques, no priceless artwork on the walls, no ancient glassware in cabinets.

But for some reason, the home didn't seem any more lived in. There was no dust on the mantles or the windowsills or in the corners. There were no stains on the carpets or the seat cushions of the couch. The curtains in the windows weren't sun-faded or worn. The clothes in the closets were all wrinkle-free, folded neatly by color, the reds with the oranges and pinks, the blues with the purples and blacks. Every shoe had its mate, and they all faced the same direction. Every door was held open by a doorstop, not by shoeboxes or textbooks or the nearest heavy item like in other homes. Everything was perfect, as if untouched. Like Malfoy Manor, the place was a museum, with nothing out of place and no real sign of life.

Framed photos sat in straight rows on the walls and tables, pictures of a quaint, happy family: mother, father, and little baby girl. The child was familiar, with deep brown eyes that sparkled with light. Hermione, Draco realized, feeling a small smile spread across his face. Not the Hermione he had just left behind, but the Hermione he remembered from years before, the one that smiled and laughed and believed in life.

His gaze traveled over the pictures of the perfect family and found another curious image in one of the rows of wooden frames. It held a black and white photograph, a portrait of a young woman from decades before. His eyes narrowed speculatively. The girl could have been Hermione's twin. Her dark hair was chopped shorter than the girl he knew, her gently combed out pin curls hanging just below the shoulder in the style of the time. But she had the same face, the same shadowy eyes, the same thin hands folded listlessly on her lap. Like Hermione, she didn't smile. Her lips were set in a familiar grim line.

The sudden bang of a door slamming interrupted his scrutiny. A man stormed into the room, briefcase in hand. He was medium-sized, burly, and large around the belly, with hair graying at the sides. He had brown eyes, that same chocolate-gold shade as Hermione's; they were bright with some unknown feeling that the younger man couldn't decipher.

He slowly came forward, toward Draco, and though Draco knew the man couldn't see or sense him, habit had him backing out of the way. He watched as the fellow stopped before the side table to peer down at the old photograph that he himself had just been inspecting.

"Sweeting!" the man called, still staring down at the girl in the photo, tracing one fond fingertip over her hair and face. "Sweeting, can you come down here, please?" A moment passed. Nothing happened. The man's head snapped up and his hand snapped away. "Hermione, I'm calling you! Get down here—now!"

She appeared from silence, moving slowly, her face holding that familiar exhaustion. She was years younger—about fourteen, if Draco had to guess. He frowned, noticing dark discoloring against her face. A bruise, deep and ugly, spread across her cheek to her hairline.

"What took you so long," the man asked, almost conversationally, though there was something simmering behind the words.

"I came as quickly as I could."

"Not quickly enough," he seemed to pout. Draco watched, eyes narrowed, as the man brought a caressing hand up to his daughter's face. And then shocked him when he suddenly wound up and sent one powerful palm crashing hard across her cheek. She was still and unaffected—a statue in the museum, not a flesh-and-blood girl. Perturbed by this, her father hit her again, this time harder and with the back of his hand.

Livid, Draco charged forward, ready to beat off her assailant. But he passed through the man as if a ghost. Draco fisted his hands, hating that he was forced to watch, unable to act, unable to intervene.

_A memory_, she had said. He was years too late.

_It won't change anything…_

"I'm sorry," Hermione whispered, eyes cast down. "I didn't mean to keep you."

"How sorry?" her father cooed, as if talking to a pet. His hand swiped brutally across her face another time. "Sorry enough to make it even?" Another time. The force brought her to the ground.

Draco clenched his jaw, not wanting to see—unable to look away. Who could do this? Who could do this to an innocent girl? Who could do this to their innocent _daughter_?

"Sorry enough to make it even?" the man asked again, louder. And then he snapped completely. "It will _never _be even, Hermione. God didn't give me a daughter. He sent me a witch." He was kicking her in the side, over and over, forcefully, harsh. He wound up, struck, let the toe of his shoe linger against her stomach almost soothingly for a moment before winding up and striking again. "Why do you do this to me, sweeting," he was asking her in a tortured voice. His eyes watched her with pained adoration. "Why must you always provoke me?"

Hermione made no attempt to run away, no attempt to struggle or defend. She lay still and stoic, her eyes glassed over, as if her mind was far away from the moment, from what was happening to her, from the world.

Draco shook his head, wanting to kill this man, this _father_.

He kicked her one last time. Taking a deep breath, he composed himself, smoothing his now-wrinkled shirt so that it was flat once again.

He glanced at Hermione. The limp sight of her had strange emotion crossing his face. He shook his head, went to his knees beside her. Crystals of concern were shining in his eyes, a total disconnect from the violence of moments before. "I'm sorry, sweeting. I'm sorry," he whispered, stroking her hair, her face. "You know I do things I don't mean." His grip on face tightened, tensed. "You do things to me," he accused softly. "You know you do. Things I can't control." He turned her face gently, forced her blank eyes up to his. "Do you forgive me?"

A moment passed, and then she nodded slowly.

"Thank you," he said, sighing with warm relief. "Thank you." His heavy fingers ran over her frizzy curls, and as they did, his eyes seemed to change, seemed to look her over in a different way. "It's time for bed," he told her quietly after a while. "I'll give you ten minutes, and then it's up the stairs with you." He drew himself away from her and rose again.

Not looking at her father, Hermione weakly pushed herself into a sitting position and nodded without a sound.

The man retrieved his briefcase from the ground beside him and, with one last affectionate look, walked out of the room and up the stairs.

Draco watched as Hermione crawled to the wall, resting back against it. She sat there for the whole ten minutes, motionless, her eyes dry and without emotion as they stared straight ahead.

He crouched down onto his haunches in front of her, bringing his face level with hers. He could feel her soft breath hit his chin, but knew she couldn't feel his.

Large red palm prints filled both sides of her small face. One, if not both, would be black and blue in the morning.

"Why didn't you fight?" he asked, knowing she couldn't hear him. "Why didn't you try, Hermione?"

He had never called her that. Not out loud—maybe not even in his mind.

Hermione's eyes looked right at his, right through them. "I don't have a choice," she whispered to herself, answering her own secret thoughts as well as his question.

And then she pushed herself up. Slowly, she moved forward, passing through him like a spirit, moving towards the stairs, walking up them.

Draco looked around the room, expecting the door to appear—frowning when it didn't. Was there more? It was impossible to imagine.

He followed her up the staircase, walking one step behind her.

She reached the top, took a deep breath. And then she turned, entering the nearest room. Draco frowned and followed after her.

What he saw next had his stomach turning inside out, had him nauseous with disgust, with fury, with heartbreak.

Hermione's father was laid out naked on top of the large king-sized bed. "I told you ten minutes," he chided lovingly. "You're a naughty thing, Hermione. Why must you always make me angry with you?"

Draco swallowed down the bile that was rising up in his throat.

"Come sit on the bed." She didn't. "Don't be rebellious, Hermione. I wouldn't want things to get unpleasant again today." She swallowed, still didn't move. "You're wearing at my patience. Please, sweeting, don't make me fetch you."

She finally moved forward, coming to stand beside the bed.

"Take those dirty things off," he commanded, his eyes brightening on the almost unnoticeable rise and fall of her chest. She silently obeyed. "Do it quickly," he ordered when her movements were too slow. "That's my girl," he praised as she unbuttoned her top.

Draco felt acid rise up his throat as he watched, tasted it at the back of his tongue.

"What are you waiting for?" the man asked expectantly when she was done. Draco felt his stomach drop to his knees as she climbed onto the bed beside the man.

Draco turned, fists clenching. He wouldn't watch this, couldn't. His back remained turned to the bed, but the picture was painted by a thunderstorm of unwanted sounds: the harsh, guttural sound of her father's groans; the man's labored breathing, like a sprinting dog; his soothing reassurances about how good she felt; his whispered admonishments—_Why do you bewitch me? Why do you put me under your spell?_; the sound of flesh mercilessly smacking against flesh; the piercing creak of the bedsprings as they strained under the pressure.

But he didn't hear _one sound_ from Hermione. She was like a corpse, unmoving, unspeaking.

Draco's blood was screaming _murder_. The word _kill… kill…_ was the only rational thought that swarmed in his head. Fury blinded him. A red haze tinged his eyes, making it hard to see, hard to think.

The ungraceful sound of snoring signified that the bastard was done. Draco turned back, watching as Hermione gathered her clothes, forced herself to her feet, left the room.

Draco waited until she was gone to turn back to the bed. "I swear to _God_ I'll make you pay for this," he promised, his voice dangerous, swearing _vengeance_. The bastard couldn't hear him, of course, wouldn't have even if he'd been awake. He didn't hear the threat, and would therefore do it again—and again, and again.

Draco shook his head in disgust before heading out after Hermione. He found her in the bathroom, still naked, her body resting on the cool tiled floor. In her hand was a small sheet of metal—a razor blade, he could see. She stared at it, lost inside of her own thoughts.

"Don't do it," he begged her, but she didn't hear him. He watched, pain stabbing into his heart as she dragged the blade along her arm, cutting deep. Blood began to pulse from the slash, streaming down her skin, dark red against snow white.

_We never really were young, Malfoy…_

The liquid door appeared in front of him, and with one last haunted look at Hermione, he passed through it.

She was waiting for him on the other side, sitting on the floor, leaning tiredly back against the bed. Her eyes were sad; they refused to meet his. "So..." she whispered. "Now you know."

Draco shook his head. There was nothing to say, no words of comfort to offer. Swallowing, he bent, surprising them both as he gently gathered her into his arms. He sat on the bed, cradling her close, wanting to comfort her—needing her to comfort him.

"You got what you wanted," she stated quietly. "The puzzle is solved. You can go on with your life." She tried to push away—wanting to fight the sudden desire to stay in his arms forever.

"No," he denied. "How can I now?"

"By letting me go and walking away." She struggled again, the movements weak.

He only held her tighter. "I can't let you go," he said, hating the words—hating himself because he knew they was true. "I can't walk away."

Hermione swallowed, stilled. "Why not?" she asked him.

He just shook his head. _Because my own dark fate is waiting nearby. Because I can't care about you much longer._

She sat there in his lap for what seemed like hours. She relaxed as time went on, having a hard time not turning her face into his neck. She finally gave up and did, and he held her closer.

After a while, her breathing evened out and she fell asleep. Somehow unable to let her go, he laid down, keeping her in the strong circle of his arms. Unconsciously, she snuggled closer to him, causing a pang in his heart.

Draco watched her as she slept, lifting a hand to brush the curls away from her face. It was strange and new, having her there in his arms, and he had the unfamiliar desire to hold on to the moment forever.

Of course, like all good things, it would have to come to an end. Soon, he wouldn't be allowed to hold her, to protect her.

To love her.

_What? _But it was too late. The truth was there and he couldn't make it go away. He didn't want to.

He'd never thought it was possible, not with any woman, but especially never with her…

He was in love… with Hermione Granger.


	6. I Feel

_Saving You Summary—DMHG. Hermione Granger has a secret, one that's literally killing her. Who will come to her rescue? What if the only one who can is Draco Malfoy? Rated M for sexual content (including rape), suicide ideation, and violence._

_Disclaimer—Most of the characters and a lot of the setting belong to J.K. Rowling. The rest is mine._

A/N: Last updated Dec. 9, 2009.

* * *

**:::I Feel:::**

Draco was sleeping.

It wasn't a deep sleep. He hadn't fallen into the bottomless waters of heavy rest. There was something holding him to the waves above, letting him float along in liquid tranquility.

Something—or rather, some_one_.

He was aware of a body snuggled close to his, keeping him warm. His arms were wrapped firmly around delicate softness. A woman, he acknowledged absently, though she wasn't familiar. The figure was too slight to be any of the fleshy girls he usually had in his bed, too fragile to belong to the worldly Jezebels he recognized.

The tiny form was surprisingly comfortable, fitting against his built one as if it was made for him alone. Who was she? A name was there in the back of his mind, just out of reach. He could wake up, find out. But he was too contented to stay as he was, his arms holding tight to the nameless source of serenity.

The sound of tapping invaded his consciousness, and he fought to push it out, to keep hold of this rare feeling of peace. The noise only grew more incessant, demanding to be acknowledged.

His eyes blinked open to a room that was not his own. The setup was familiar—in fact, was a mirror image of his—but his tired mind couldn't quite place it. Where _was_ he? He shook his head, his gaze falling to the woman beside him.

Hermione Granger.

The night before rushed back to him in a flash. With a clenched jaw, his mind remembered the liquid door, the brutal memories behind it.

_I'll never understand... Why is it so easy for them?_

The noise erupted with louder force, jolting him out of his thoughts. His gaze moved to the window-wall, and he climbed off of the bed, careful not to wake the sleeping woman at his side.

Slowly, silently, he drew the curtain back. His father's eagle-owl waited for him on the other side of the glass.

Draco looked at it warily, wanting to deny it entrance. The bird had no place here, in _her_ room. It had no right to be anywhere near her, where its darkness might touch her, where its danger might hurt her. The need to shield her, to protect her, was somehow imbedded deep into his soul.

But how could he protect her when it was him who brought the danger? How could he give her light when he didn't possess any to give?

Hating himself, he opened the door, letting the owl—and everything it stood for—into her bedroom.

The sleek bird stepped inside, its critical gaze moving from Draco to the girl fast asleep beneath the covers. It glared up at its master, its eyes calling him a betrayer.

Draco crouched down, grabbed the message tied to its leg. "Piss off," he snapped, shoving the bird, shooing it away. With one last baleful glance at Hermione, it stepped back out onto the balcony and flew off into the morning sun.

Draco sighed, watching as it became a distant speck and then disappeared completely. Once it was gone, his gaze moved to the tiny letter. With a sigh, he unfolded the paper and read the message within.

_We need to discuss the parameters of your Joining into the First Circle. _

_One week. Be here at dawn. There is much to say. LM_

Draco crushed the page in his fist, threw it to the ground with a strangled sound of aggravation. It bounced against the carpet, rolled away.

There is much to say, the note had said. Draco didn't doubt it. He knew exactly how the meeting would pan out. He would to return to the manor in the depths of the night, where Lucius would be waiting with that snide, disapproving look. His father would inform him of all the ridiculous feats he would have to perform in order to be Marked and Joined; customarily, Tasks were assigned to test a potential Eater's skill and, more importantly, his loyalty to the Dark Mark. A range of missions were assigned, from the generally benign to the conclusively lethal. But Draco was well aware that his assignment would be closer to the latter's end of the scale. Entrance into the First Circle didn't come free. Someone would have to pay—and it wouldn't just be him.

He returned to his place on the bed, needing someone to warm him from the sudden chill that was running through. Needing _her_.

Lying down, he studied her face as she slept. It seemed like suddenly it was impossible to tear his eyes away. He could stare at her forever. He could be perfectly content just watching her breathe in slowly and breathe out softly, perfectly happy just watching that peaceful smile that spread in sleep.

But this new beginning was coming to a fast and sudden end. Soon he would be forced away from her, guided back into the shadows by a promise he'd never really made. A promise he was bound to by blood, his blood—the bluest, purest blood in the wizarding world.

Why was this happening? Why would Fate bring her closer, only to tear her from him again? How, when he'd only just found her, could he let her just slip away?

Unable to resist, he reached out and lightly brushed a finger along her cheek. It was warm and soft, like stroking the petal of a rose. He gritted his teeth, his heart aching a little as she snuggled closer to him. She was so trusting in sleep, all her world-wariness disappearing as she dreamt.

Was she aware of the man lying beside her? Would she cringe away once she was? He was almost sure she would, and secretly resented it.

He continued to watch her. There wouldn't be many more moments like this. Draco Malfoy was bred for darkness, Hermione Granger for light. They could never have more, _be _more. They were destined to be apart.

So he would keep his mouth shut about these impossible feelings she'd ignited inside of him. How could he put them to words? They wouldn't change anything. And when the time came, they would make it that much harder to walk away.

Hermione stirred, moaned. Draco watched as she slowly opened her brown eyes, looking drowsily up into his. He tried not to smile as he watched the wheels in her head slowly begin to turn. He could almost hear them as they clicked into gear, belatedly bringing full awareness, registering a name with a face.

Realizing who he was and his nearness to her, she scurried off of the mattress, holding on to the bedpost for support as her weak body began to sag. "You _stayed _in here?" she asked, her tired eyes wide. "What is the _matter _with you, Malfoy?"

Draco rose from the bed as well, putting the bed between them. "We fell asleep, Granger." He smirked, shrugged. There was fire in her eyes, shining brighter than he'd seen in a long time. "Accidents happen," he explained with mock innocence.

"Not with me," she argued in a whisper. "Not with _us_! God, Malfoy, what were you thinking?"

"That I was tired, and that it was more convenient for me to just… close my eyes." _And that I couldn't bear to leave you, not after everything that happened._

Hermione shook her head, clearing the dizziness that was caused as much by embarrassment as it was by physical weakness. "You're an idiot," she told him. "Harry and Ron have my key. They could have walked in here at any time!"

On cue, a banging noise sounded against the door that led to Gryffindor Tower. "Mione, it's us. We forgot your key. Can you unlock the door or do you need us to come the other way?"

Hermione looked from the door to Draco, her eyes widening with panic. "_Go!"_ she mouthed. He shook his head, that old mischievous gleam lighting his eyes. She gestured emphatically, trying to shoo him, but he _wouldn't leave_.

"Mione?"

"Hold on!' she called to the door, her voice strained. She looked back to Draco, lowered her voice. "_What_ are you _doing_?" she whispered harshly.

"Entertaining myself," he answered with an insolent smile.

Hermione's eyes widened, then narrowed. "You despicable bast—"

"Hermione?"

"Just a minute!" she sang. She glared at Draco. "Go! _Go!_" she ordered sharply, making her voice quiet again

"Actually, I think I'll stay," he responded, not bothering to whisper.

"If you don't leave now, they'll find you in here!"

"I'm so afraid," he said back dully. He let out a sound of exasperation at the look in her eyes. 'We _fell asleep_, for Christ's sake. It isn't against the law."

"We fell asleep _together_," she bit out. "It _is _against the law. You know it is."

Her friends knocked again. "Hermione? Are you okay? Who's in there with you?" Ron called from behind the door.

"No one," she called back, not taking her piercing gaze from Draco. "Absolutely no one."

"Someone," he corrected quietly. Rounding the bed, he drew her to him, fitting her thin form to his powerful one. "Definitely someone."

Hermione didn't fight. Her body was weak, but more importantly, her _will_ was weak. His face was just above hers, and as she looked up into it, she became dizzy. It's not the illness, she thought. Or maybe it was… a new, intense illness, one that was both caused and cured by being in Draco Malfoy's arms.

She watched his heated gaze fall from her eyes to her lips, and she thought for a moment that he would kiss her. Excitement and dread mixed, but just as she thought he would lean in, he spoke. "If I find out you didn't eat, I will come back in here and force-feed you myself."

His steel eyes were still focused on her mouth, and unable to stop it, her gaze traveled to his. What would happen if he bent forward, closed the distance? What would happen if she stood on her tiptoes and brought her lips to his? What would it feel like?

"Hermione? Listen, you're not supposed to get out of bed. Just stay where you are. We'll walk down the other way."

Hermione barely heard Harry's voice. How could she focus on her friends, on anything but Draco's body against hers, on his lips just above her own?

Draco took a deep breath in and out. "I'll be back," he told her, making the words a promise. Reaching up, he fingered the necklace she wore. In a way, it made her his. As long as she wore it, he could pretend she belonged to him. "Things will be different now." And then he took her shoulders and held her away. With one final stormy glance, he forced himself to turn away and walk from the room.

Hermione watched him go, enthralled. _Things will be different now._ The words were becoming more and more complicated. What was happening between them?

"Are you alright, Mione?" Ron asked, appearing in the doorway some minutes after.

"Uh huh," she said absently.

"What are you doing standing? Pomfrey said you shouldn't overexert," he told her, coming to her side and helping her back onto the bed.

"I'm okay," she insisted quietly, beginning to break from the trance. "How… how did you get in here?" she asked.

Harry and Ron looked at each other. "The centaur portrait," Harry said with a frown. "Are you… sure you're okay, Mione? You seem a little dazed." He reached out, pressing the back of his hand to her forehead.

Hermione took his wrist and held his hand away. "I'm not a child, Harry," she reminded him quietly.

How could she tell them that she _was_ dazed, that it was their childhood nemesis that suddenly had her spellbound?

Harry brought his hand back down, smiling endearingly. For the first time in a long time, there was _passion_ in her tired voice. It was one of the things that had disappeared from her without an explanation, without a sound. One of the things he'd missed the most.

Was the fire coming back? Was there finally hope?

Ron brought over a tray and placed it carefully onto her lap. "Here you go."

Hermione looked down. The bowl was filled with unappetizing mush. Porridge, probably, though she couldn't be sure.

"Oh, and she told us to give you this." He held out a tiny clear container filled to the top with thick brown liquid. Hermione took it, opening the lid. Hesitantly, she held it under her nose, taking a sniff.

"Ugh!" Her nose scrunched up in disgust at the scent.

"Yeah, I know," Harry said sympathetically. "It looks foul, but it'll make you feel better."

"I feel fine," she insisted, trying to hand the thing back to them. Both boys crossed their arms, their eyes saying that they would force it down her throat if necessary.

Her doubtful gaze moved back to the bottle. "What's it for?" she asked, looking at the suspicious brown substance.

"She didn't say," Ron answered.

"Maybe it isn't important," she tried to reason.

"And maybe it is," Harry argued quietly. "Come on, Mione. Just knock it back and be done with it."

Hermione sighed. "Alright. Here goes," she said with a grimace, downing the container's contents. She swallowed, gagged, coughed. "It tastes like it smells," she complained, her eyes squinting and her face pinching up at the sour tang.

Ron laughed. She heard a click, then saw a flash, quick and bright.

"Ron, you git! Can't you see she's tired? The last thing she needs is a camera flash in her face!" Harry's voice rose as he punched Ron in the shoulder.

The quick pain that spread down his arm wiped the smile off his face. He rubbed it, glaring at Harry. "What'd you go and do that for?" he asked.

"You're an idiot, that's why!" Harry scowled. "What did you bring that thing for anyway?"

Ron didn't tell his friend that the last few days had reminded him of life's impermanence, of the chance that any one person could be torn away from it without a thought. He didn't admit that he'd been struck with the need to record Hermione, to record them all, so that if anything happened, he would have the memories to hold in his hand—and, hopefully, to sustain him.

"To take pictures, moron," he said instead. "That's what cameras are for, isn't it?"

"He's an idiot!" Harry informed Hermione. He turned to Ron. "You're an idiot," he assured his friend.

Hermione smiled, a tiny but genuine turning up of lips. "You're both idiots," she corrected with quiet affection.

The humor in her voice and on her face was real. Relief was a waterfall inside of Harry. Had it really taken all this to make her smile? Had falling to a literal rock bottom been what she'd needed to rise back up? Was it near-death that was bringing her back to life?

"You're right," he admitted after a moment, unable to keep a smile from his face. "We are."

There was a short silence. He looked at the bowl, pointed. "Eat," he prodded, handing her a spoon. "Your food will get cold."

Hermione took the spoon, looking down at the porridge. She hesitated, thinking. Was this the end to feeling, then? No more hunger, no chance for pain... Would she have to grow used to being numb, to feeling nothing—_being _nothing?

She almost refused. She wasn't ready to disappear. She wasn't ready to walk through life as a ghost. She _had_ to feel! She had to!

But the faces of her friends stopped the refusal as it formed on her lips. She could see the renewal of hope in their eyes, the relief in their smiles. How could she let them down now? They loved her—and even though a part of her wanted to, she couldn't just turn away. Not anymore.

They wouldn't let her.

Involuntarily, she remembered Draco's warning_. If I find out you didn't eat, I will come back in here and force-feed you myself_. With an internal sigh, she dipped her spoon into the bowl. It wasn't the threat of physical force that had her obeying, but the other, more disconcerting one.

_Things will be different now…_

The words echoed throughout her as she brought the spoon to her mouth and swallowed the porridge down. She looked up at her friends. The relief they felt didn't show on their faces, but it clogged the room all the same, along with bright rays of hope.

* * *

Draco glared at the lion that guarded her bedchamber. This was how it would always be, how it had to be. He would forever be the one forced out of the room, the one forced to watch, to wait. The one forced into the shadows, only blessed with brief, tantalizing glimpses of the brightness beyond. He would never have access to Hermione's thoughts, nor to her heart. He would never have what _they _had with her. He would never have anything _close_ to what they shared. That was just how things had to be.

_There's always more…_

He didn't have much time. In exactly one week, he would finally begin his one-way journey to hell. The beginning of the end was near, so near that he could taste it.

And until then, he would have to wait in the shadows to talk to Hermione Granger, to spend time with her. He would have to watch her from afar to assure himself of her health, her safety. He would have to love her in secret to love her at all.

Bitterness welled up inside of him.

_Why is it we don't have a choice?

* * *

_

Harry and Ron headed to class, walking slowly. Exhaustion from the past few days was finally catching up with them, sapping away at their energy.

"You sure it's a good idea to leave her alone?" Ron asked his friend, looking over his shoulder.

"No," Harry said.

"Oh, well, _that's_ reassuring." Ron shrugged, rearranging the strap of his bag as it fell from his shoulder. "What about Malfoy? What if he's bothering her?"

"He's not." Harry couldn't explain how he knew, but he did. And he didn't know how to feel about the change. "Besides, he's probably heading to class as we speak." Ron only shrugged again.

"Hey! Ron! Harry!" It was Ginny, calling them from behind. They turned, waited for her to catch up. "You weren't at breakfast," she said, out of breath as she reached them.

"Good observation," Ron said, rolling his eyes. "A gold star for you."

Ginny glared at her brother, then turned to Harry. "Were you with Mione?" she asked him. "How is she?"

"Better, actually, now that she's rested. She seems like she's getting back to her normal self." It was slow and small—too small to be definite. But hope was burning brighter than it had in a long time. It seemed like maybe, just maybe, she was returning to them.

Ginny smiled brightly. "What a relief," she sighed, looking up and down the corridor. "I guess she'll be getting back to school within the next few days, then."

"We hope so, anyway."

Ginny nodded. "Well, I should head off to class. I've got an exam in about five minutes. Oh, and here—" She unzipped her bag and drew out a wrinkled newspaper. "I thought you might want to see this. It's today's Daily Prophet."

Harry took the paper from her with a frown. "_More Law Enforcement Missing, Suspicions Arise_."

"Everyone's talking about it," Ginny told them as Harry scanned the text. "Another two. That makes about eight or something."

"Nine," Harry corrected under his breath.

"Eerie, isn't it?" Ginny asked after a minute.

Ron rolled his eyes. "What are you going on about?"

"Aurors disappearing, and in such a short time. It doesn't make you the least bit nervous?"

Harry stared at the black and white pages in his grasp. "The Ministry can't pretend that this is just some unhappy coincidence anymore," he said quietly. "Its looking more and more like a very deliberate attempt to weaken our army." He looked up then, his green eyes haunted. "And it's working," he added gravely. "What happens when there are no more Aurors left? What happens when Voldemort attacks and we don't have anyone to help us."

* * *

He looked between his two friends. Their ocean-blue eyes held the same troubled look his did.

The Great Hall was buzzing with conversation at lunch. Leftover newspapers still littered the tables from breakfast, and the students scattered along the benches plucked them up, reading the front page over again, sharing theories with the people around them about what was really happening with—and _to_—the Aurors.

"These missing Law Enforcement are making big news," Pansy observed lightly, looking around the hall with interest in her eyes. "People are really staring to get scared."

Draco didn't look up from the pages of his Potions textbook. "Are they?" he asked blandly. "I hadn't noticed."

Pansy sent him a pointed glance. "You hadn't noticed or you hadn't _cared_?"

"I had neither noticed, nor cared." Draco slowly underlined a sentence on the page with his pencil and wrote a quick, short note in the margin. He missed the roll of Pansy's dark blue eyes.

"Your apathy really does know no bounds," she mused affectionately. She looked across the table, to where Blaise Zabini sat reading a crinkled page of the Daily Prophet. "Nine is a big number when it's out of such a small group," she went on conversationally, stirring a spoon through the thick cream of her soup. "If any more Aurors disappear, I imagine the office will be completely incapacitated." She paused, slowly looking between the men with sly suspicion. "Or is that the intention?" she dared to ask.

Blaise, like Draco, didn't look up from his reading. "Is that a rhetorical question or are we supposed to answer?"

Pansy straightened primly. "A bit of communication for once would be nice."

Draco's steel eyes snapped up. His pencil dropped out of his hand onto the book, rolling down the curved page and onto the table. "Answering that question would require us to admit we know something about it," he bit off quietly. His voice was patient but deadly as it pushed out through his teeth. "And admitting we know something about something like _that_—especially in a public place such as _this_—would be a very stupid thing to do, considering it's a felony."

Pansy sighed over a rueful smile, playfully contrite. "I'm sorry, darling," she cooed. "I didn't think."

She tried to take his hand, to soothe the aggression, but he only drew it away. "You rarely do." He picked his pencil up and returned to the textbook.

Pansy's eyes narrowed at the rejection, but her smile stayed in place. She let another moment pass before skillfully changing the subject. "You seem very intent on that book," she observed amusedly. "Since when do you have to do your homework at lunch?"

"Since Granger left him high and dry," Blaise said wryly over his newspaper. "You forget, Pansy, our friend here is doing double the work."

Pansy's lip curled at that. "You're doing the mudblood's half of the project?" she asked with distaste. Her navy eyes were narrowed and doubtful. "That's uncharacteristically kind of you, Draco."

"It's necessary," he returned shortly without looking up.

The Slytherin Princess sniffed, as if the topic had an unpleasant stench. "What, she isn't back polluting the air in your dormitory yet?"

"She's on mandatory bed rest," Draco said dully. He smiled tightly. "And that means 'do not disturb'_._"

Blaise folded the newspaper. "So you've been staying away from her, then?" he asked casually. Or, rather, with false casualness. But Draco saw through the words, saw their deeper meaning in his friend's dark eyes.

"Of course he has," Pansy dismissed, pulling a small, square make-up mirror from her bag. She flipped it open and held it before her face, angling her chin up haughtily as she considered herself. "Though I don't know why you'd let her get away with making you do all the work, Draco," she went on in her superior way. "Being in bed all day, she has _more_ than enough free time to do her fair share." Draco said nothing, only continued reading, jaw clenched. "Don't you agree, Blaise?" she pressed, looking over her reflection to the dark-skinned man.

"I agree she must be starved for something to do and someone to keep her company," he answered carefully. And then his skeptical gaze went to Draco. "If, in fact, she _is_ without those things."

Pansy looked back to her reflection with a satisfied smile. "Well, it serves her right," she said, smoothing her dark bangs. "I don't know _what_ kind of idiot falls off a balcony."

Blaise's gaze stayed on Draco. "Perhaps she didn't fall," he stated dryly. "Perhaps she jumped."

Pansy snapped the mirror closed, smiling at the joke. "A girl can dream," she said sweetly. She looked to the man beside her, who was watching Blaise with unreadable grey eyes. "Really, Draco, I don't know why you saved her," she told him. "Nature obviously had other intentions."

"Oh, but that's Draco Malfoy, isn't it?" Blaise put in wryly, his eyes still locked with his friend's tense silver ones. "Tell him to do something and he doesn't—tell him _not _to do something and he _does_." He shook his head with a knowing smile. "The rules don't matter. People's _expectations_ don't matter. He does what he wants—whether it's natural or not." There was something there behind his lighthearted tone. Something dark. "_Contra mundum_—against the world. That's how you live your life, isn't it, Malfoy?"

Draco didn't answer right away. "So far, anyway," he agreed quietly. Another moment passed. And then he forced a smile. "Now, are we finished with this illuminating analysis? I'd like to get back to work."

"We're finished," Blaise laughed, unfolding his newspaper. _For now_, his black eyes seemed to add.

* * *

Though the sun hadn't even begun it's downward descent into the loch, Hermione's eyelids were tired and heavy. Over the course of the day, Madam Pomfrey had sent an array of medicinal concoctions and sedative teas to her room—prescriptions that she had accepted after minutes of gentle coaxing. The dosage had made staying alert a particular challenge, but she pushed herself through the exhaustion to focus on finishing the task at hand.

Thick open textbooks and loose pieces of paper were fanned out around her on the mattress. She'd only been out of class for a few days, but the assignments had piled up until there was no longer just a few sheets, but a whole _mountain_ of parchment for her to climb.

At the forefront of her weary mind was the Potions project Snape had assigned all those days ago—the one she'd been assigned to complete with her partner, Draco Malfoy.

She didn't for a second believe that he would do her half of the work; Malfoy wasn't the kind to waste his time on something like that—_especially_ for someone like her. But she knew the strict Potions professor would deduct points for an assignment that was incomplete. And she couldn't let Malfoy have anything else to hold over her head.

Waking up beside him had been... strange. Unnerving. All-consuming. Now, all of a sudden, all she could think about was _him_: his silver gaze staring intently into her sleep-hazed eyes as her eyelids parted; his strong hands around her small shoulders, drawing her body against his; his low, threatening voice; the words _I'll be back_, leaving her weak and worried... a dark promise leaving her to wait.

She fingered the cool diamond at her chest. She didn't want this feeling that was growing inside of her... this feeling that she _owed_ him something. This feeling that she owed him _everything_.

So she persevered in silence, rubbing the weariness from her burning eyes, forcing herself through the endless text on the page, forcing the feather quill to do its duty, dipping it into the inkwell and then carefully scraping answers onto one foot of parchment after another.

After long hours, she heard his footsteps in the corridor. She stilled, her eyes warily going to the door as the sound fell away. Was he hesitating at the entrance, she wondered. Was he thinking about coming in? She could almost feel his presence on the other side of the wall...

But after another moment she could hear him walking away, passing, heading to the portrait entrance of his own chambers. She listened as his bathroom door opened and closed, listened as he crossed the tiles, closer to her door... closer...

She watched the doorknob; held her breath, waiting for it to turn. Instead, the succinct _click_ of the lock sounded, and, soon after, the rush of the shower running. She let herself breathe, relief washing through her.

Relief... but something else, too. Something far more complicated. Something like disappointment.

The sun finally set. Draco sat at the large mahogany table in his common room, papers and books scattered on the surface before him. Wanting to free himself from Pansy and Blaise's poking and prodding for the night, he didn't go down to the Great Hall for dinner.

There hadn't been so much as a sound from Granger's bedroom. And he would know—he'd been carefully listening. His halfhearted focus on the work in front of him was constantly being interrupted by the pressing need to look up every few minutes and frown at the lion entrance beyond. It was a habit, an _instinct_, this need to watch her, to want her. She had been at the front of his mind—and, all of a sudden, at the center of his heart. This sudden gripping, all-consuming feeling... it was as familiar as it was foreign, as natural as it was deviant. He longed to rise from the table, from his work—just to check on her, to make that sure she was all right. The memory of her fragile form in his arms... it made his heart ache, made him grit his teeth tight.

But every time, he forced his eyes back down to his textbooks and notebooks and endless lists of ingredients. He _shouldn't_ love her like this, _need _her like this. He shouldn't want to protect her—shouldn't let himself believe that he even could. There was danger lurking around every corner, danger just as dark as the kind she was beginning to leave behind. The best thing he could do for her, for both of them, was to finally do what he was told. The more involved he let himself get with Granger, the more likely he was to drag her down with him.

Because, like it or not, that's where he was going. Down, down, down…

Of course, every time, his eyes strayed back to that lion portrait. No matter how he tried to fight or focus, he found he didn't have the will to resist. He knew it was selfish—that it was _dangerous_. But he _had_ to think about her, had to want her. It was all that possessed him now—was all that he possessed.

A knock on the centaur portrait saved him from his troubling thoughts. He brought his gaze around to glare at the entrance. It was probably Pansy or Blaise or someone else wanting the _Slytherin Prince_. But he didn't want to play prince tonight. He had too much to do. Too much to think about.

The knocker didn't go away. Searching for patience, he rose and crossed to the portrait, pushing it open a bit so he could peer around the heavy frame.

Ginny Weasley was on the other side. "Hey," she said with a nod.

Draco pushed the portrait open a bit further. "Weasley," he greeted, one blond brow raising.

"It's my turn to bring Hermione dinner," she explained, lifting a brown paper bag that was presumably full of food. "Can I come in?" she asked when he said nothing.

He looked at her a moment. And then he pushed the painting all the way open and stood back, motioning her into the room with a condescending bow. She only smiled, moving past him.

Her blue eyes immediately found the table littered with textbooks. "Wow. Draco Malfoy is doing homework," she observed with false praise. She looked over her shoulder. "I'm impressed."

Draco pulled the portrait closed and crossed his arms. "Believe it or not, Weasley, not everything I do is for pleasure," he returned wryly. "They didn't make me Head Boy for my skill at cards or with women."

Ginny shrugged a casual shoulder, lifting one of the loose pages from the table and looking it over. "I never thought they did," she answered nonchalantly. "I just assumed they chose you for... _political_ reasons."

Draco's smile stayed in place, but his silver eyes simmered. "How... insightful of you," he said. She only shrugged again, tongue-in-cheek. "Perhaps you should run along, Weasley," he advised quietly, coming forward, plucking his paper from her grasp. "You wouldn't want that dinner you brought your friend to get cold."

"No. I wouldn't," she agreed easily.

He smiled sarcastically over gritted teeth and waited for her to turn, before seating himself back at the table and continuing on with his work.

But Ginny found herself hesitating. The fire behind her taunts had dimmed—extinguished by the prevailing knowledge of what Draco Malfoy had done for her friend. She shook her head, her bright auburn hair shaking against her shoulders. And then she turned back.

"Malfoy."

Draco's impatient smoke eyes looked up. He arched an eyebrow, waited.

Ginny's blue eyes were thoughtful. Reluctant. "What you did for Hermione..." she said quietly. "What you did for Ron and Harry and me..." She paused. "I won't forget," she told him meaningfully.

"Do," Draco commanded dryly. "Forget, Weasley." He put on a derisive smile. "It was nothing."

Ginny's gaze narrowed, some of the fire returning at that arrogant, apathetic tone. Her chin raised half an inch. "Well, it may have been nothing to you," she told him, "but it meant _everything_ to me." She looked him over with critical eyes. "So _you_ can forget if you want," she forged on. "But I'll remember." She swallowed. "And I'll always be grateful."

She turned and walked away, not about to give him the chance to bite back with a snide remark. She approached the lion portrait, raised her free hand to gently knock on the frame. "Mione," she called softly. "Are you awake? It's me."

"Come in."

Ginny whispered the password. The lion seemed to smile as it opened, allowing her in and then gently closing behind her.

"Dinner is served..." The redheaded girl stopped short, her eyes softening at the sight that greeted her eyes. "Mione. What are you doing?"

There were heavy textbooks and piles of paper scattered all over Hermione. Pillows were propped up behind her, but she was bent over. Her tired eyes were squinting, focused as she scanned the pages of a book beside her legs and then shifted back to slowly write on a long scroll of parchment on her lap. "Homework," she answered quietly, not looking up. "I can't fall behind." She straightened, bringing one hand up to press into her red-rimmed eyes. "I must have missed some important lectures in class. This is harder than it should be…"

Ginny came forward, letting a humorous smile spread—trying to keep the tinge of worry off her face. "Well, the fact that you're highly medicated is probably a contributing factor," she stated with affection.

Hermione only made a faint sound of agreement as she lowered her hand, and then her eyes, and then went back to work.

Ginny placed the brown grocery bag onto the bed, pulling out the covered soup, the small carton of milk, the slice of bread, and the spoon, setting them out on the bedside table. "Speaking of which," she went on, "Pomfrey had me bring up more tea." She reached into the bag, pulled out a thermos, shook it with a smile.

But the avid student that she had learned to love and had come to expect was, as usual, only half listening. Hermione glanced up from the parchment, but it was only to dip her quill into the inkwell that sat on the bedside table.

Ginny plucked it up before the sharpened edge could touch the black liquid. "Mione, I'm sure your professors will understand if you hold off on the schoolwork for a while," she said firmly. "Pomfrey says you need to rest."

"I'm resting," Hermione insisted quietly. "I'm under the covers and I haven't been out of bed all day." She sighed in drowsy exasperation when her blue-eyed friend only sent her a speaking glance. "Ginny, I'd die if I didn't at least have _something_ to do."

The words were casual, but they had Ginny's smile fading, the mere _mention_ of possible death causing emotion to shine in her eyes.

Hermione looked down. "I didn't mean..."

"I know," the other girl said softly, waving a dismissive hand. "Don't mind me. I'm just being silly."

Hermione swallowed. That look in Ginny's dark blue eyes _wasn't_ silly. It was the solemnest torture anyone could think to devise.

Ginny shook her head, and the emotion away with it. No matter how hurt or upset she felt, she had promised herself she _would not_ show it in Hermione's presence. There had to be some semblance of regularity; tears and pleas would only hinder her friend's recovery. If they continued she _would _die—die of guilt.

No, they had to move forward. Life had to go on.

_Hermione's_ life _had _to go on.

"Study, if you must," Ginny relented, returning the inkwell to its place beside the food. "You're an independent woman. I'm not about to tell you what to do." She shook her head with a sigh. "You have Harry and Ron for that."

Hermione smiled gratefully at her friend before dipping the feather into the ink and returning it to the page.

Ginny rolled her blue eyes amusedly. "Listen, I have Prefects meeting in a few minutes," she said. Her eyes softened as she watched the familiar line appear between Hermione's brows, the one that creased when she was concentrating hard. "But if you want me to stay...?"

Hermione glanced up. "No, I'm okay," she replied softly. She smiled thinly. "I'd never get any work done with you here, anyway."

"I'll take that as a compliment," Ginny replied. But then the humor in her smile faded a bit. "You'll eat that, won't you?" she asked, nodding to the dinner on the bedside table.

"Yes, Ginny," Hermione said tiredly without looking up.

"Promise me," Ginny insisted, her voice a bit more earnest than she'd intended. Hermione's eyes came up at the tone, and her friend forced herself to smile and shrug. "Because you know Harry and Ron would want me to have hawk-eyes on you until every last drop was gone," she explained away. "They'd be livid if I left and they found out later you didn't eat." She nudged her friend with a playful, puppy-dog pout. "So promise me." She held out one small finger. "Pinky swear."

Hermione shook her head, smiling fondly. She curled her littlest finger around Ginny's. "I pinky swear," she said.

She began to draw her hand away, but Ginny's pinky tightened around hers, holding it in place. "I don't need to remind you that the pinky swear is a time-honored, _sacred_ tradition of our gender," she stated solemnly. "Breaking it wouldn't just be wrong—it would be a sacrilege."

"I'll eat," Hermione laughed, shaking their joint hands.

"Okay," Ginny said with a smile, releasing her hostage hold of the other girl's finger. She bent down to plant a quick kiss on Hermione's hair. "I love you," she said. "I'll see you tomorrow."

Hermione dipped her quill into the ink and quickly scribbled a final sentence onto the parchment in her lap. "Ginny," she said quickly, stopping her friend just before she could exit.

The red-haired girl turned back. "Yeah?" she asked.

Hermione carefully rolled the endless page of cream-yellow paper into a scroll. And then she looked up. "I guess it was Malfoy who let you in…" she deduced quietly.

"Unfortunately," Ginny said with a sugary smile.

Hermione took a deep breath before holding the work out. "Will you... bring this out to him," she asked with a hesitant smile. "Leave it on the table if he's not still there."

Ginny crossed back to her, taking what she was handed with a curious frown. She sent her friend a questioning look.

"Snape assigned us as partners," the brown-eyed girl explained warily. "That's my half of the work." She sighed. "My sad attempt at it, anyway."

Ginny unrolled the parchment with a frown, revealing foot upon foot of careful work. Sad attempt, indeed! "How long did this take you?" she asked the other girl with furrowed brows. Hermione said nothing, only brought up a hand to rub her tired eyes.

It was answer enough.

Ginny sighed inwardly, considering her friend with a wistful shake of her head. "You look exhausted, Hermione," she reprimanded gently. "Please... don't force yourself to stay up too late."

Hermione nodded, letting herself rest back against the pillows for the first time all day. She could sleep now. As long as her half of the Potions work was done, she could sleep. As long as she'd done everything she could to keep herself from falling further into Malfoy's debt.

"I won't," she promised, closing her eyes as the exhaustion she'd suppressed all day fell over her in heavy waves.

"Good," Ginny said. "Now eat your dinner and drink your tea," she commanded softly. "I'll see you in the morning."

"See you," Hermione drowsily agreed.

She heard the portrait gently close. And then, books and papers still strewn around her, she surrendered to the sedatives and fell into sleep.

Draco was still working at the table when Ginny breezed back into the room. "I'm heading out," she informed him as she went.

"Are you?" he asked dryly. "What a shame."

She smiled with syrup-sweet sarcasm. "Isn't it, though?"

He only sent her a sardonic glance.

"Oh." She rolled her eyes as she remembered the scroll of parchment in her hand. "Hermione wanted me to give you this."

Draco stood with a frown. He didn't accept the roll of paper right away. "What is it?" he asked, watching it cautiously, as if it might suddenly come to life.

Ginny shrugged. "I guess she's your partner for some Potions assignment…" she explained.

Draco's eyes narrowed. He snatched the paper from her, unraveled it, scanned its contents with angry eyes. His jaw clenched. Granger's slanted handwriting was shakier than usual, exhaustion evident in every dot and curve. Ingredients and detailed descriptions spanned out for what seemed like miles. There had to be four feet of work there, at least.

"She did this?" he asked, his hands fisting, crinkling the long page. His stormy gaze went to the lion portrait. "She's supposed to be resting," he said through his teeth.

Ginny shook her head with a smile, her blue eyes looking tenderly at the careful scrawl. "Hermione Granger doesn't rest," she informed him. "Not when there's still work to be done." She glanced beyond the archway to the grassland king. "She may get tired. She may sleep. But she never really _rests_, exactly." There was a pause. Her thoughtful gaze saddened. "Maybe that's what she wanted..."

She trailed off as the tears returned to her eyes. She shook her head, awakening herself from the sudden vision of Hermione stepping away from the balcony and falling to the jagged cliffs.

"I should get going," she said, forcing the strong smile back onto her lips. "I have a Prefects meeting to attend." She crossed to the centaur portrait, pushed it open. But before she made her exit, she turned back. "Thanks for letting me in, Malfoy."

Draco forced one eyebrow up. "I merely opened a door, Weasley," he stated mildly.

Ginny nodded. "Yeah. You opened a door," she told him meaningfully. And then she smiled in that familiar flippant way. "I'll see you around, ferret."

He sent her his signature smirk. "I can't wait."

But when the portrait closed off, so did his face.

His troubled gaze returned to the parchment in his hand. It was heavy, weighted down by the hours he knew she must have spent forcing herself to complete it. He went back to the table, where his own work waited for him to return. He reached down and closed the textbook—perhaps a bit harder than he'd intended. He should have been grateful or relieved that he wouldn't have to stay up and finish her half of the work. But he was surprised to find that he much preferred the idea of his having to lose sleep over the idea of _her _having to lose it.

* * *

Hermione was permitted by the nurse to return to her normal routine the following day.

She had expected things to pick up where they'd left off, to go back to the way they'd been.

They didn't.

Harry and Ron were like two overprotective parents, hovering over her, crowding around her. Smothering her. They watched her every move, analyzing what she could handle, telling her when they thought she was doing too much. They monitored her as she ate, checked on her as she slept. She didn't have room to breathe!

She didn't bother complaining or arguing. There wasn't much energy to spare on quarrels and protests. And though she hated to admit it, she wasn't sure what she would have done without their constant supervision. She wasn't sure she would be able to muster up enough motivation to really try, not without them hanging around, forcing her to remember the only two reasons she had to keep living.

Her thoughts turned to Draco. He had said he would be back, but he hadn't spoken to her since, not even as they'd sat side by side in Potions, not even to mention the homework she'd given him the previous day. And as much as she wished she could be relieved, she wasn't. Instead, she found she was _hurt_, afraid. _Would _he come back? Or had he lost interest now that he finally had the answers, now that the mystery had finally been solved...

Could it be the truth had disgusted him, driven him away?

Hermione wandered aimlessly through the courtyard. The air was cooling, hot summer sun mixing with winter wind to make autumn. The trees around campus were shedding their leaves, and they littered the pathways all along the castle.

"Hermione!" called a voice from behind her. "Wait up!" She stopped, turning at the deep, masculine voice.

Brandon Madison appeared at her side, smiling. Disappointment welled up inside of her. For just the slightest of seconds she'd thought it had been Malfoy's voice. But, of course, it wasn't. She shook her head at her own naivety.

"Hey," Brandon greeted warmly, standing close.

"Hey," she echoed softly, trying to smile. It was harder than she expected.

"I was so relieved to hear that you're going to be okay." He pushed his dark hair back. "After an accident like that, I'm surprised you're back in school so soon. How are you feeling?"

There was concern in his eyes, but it was quieter than the gripping anxiety that possessed Harry and Ron. It was lighter than the raw intensity that possessed Draco Malfoy. Brandon's concern was curious, polite, controlled, keeping in form with his gentlemanly aura. There was nothing too pressuring about this boy. There were no attachments, no expectations. The fierce emotion that seemed to inhabit every other man in her life was nowhere to be found inside of Brandon. Hermione liked that about him. It was a relief.

Still, it wasn't enough to cheer her or change her. As much as she wished to, she didn't hold any true response to this man. There was no connection there, nothing but a plain, polite friendship.

And she wondered briefly if a certain steel-eyed someone was the reason.

"I'm fine," she told him quietly.

Brandon smiled, relieved. "That's great," he said. "And you're getting around school alright? Not too much pain?"

"None at all," she told him honestly. "Still a little tired, though."

"Well, you should take it easy, preserve your energy. Because the Halloween Dance is coming up, and I imagine your date is really, _really _looking forward to dancing the night away with you."

The words brought a smile to her lips. Yes, things were much simpler with Brandon Madison. She wasn't sick or broken to him. She wasn't someone that needed watching, or saving. She was just a normal girl.

_Beautiful…_

There was guilt. He was joking with her, flirting with her, believing the lie, the spell. What you see is what you get, right? No one would think to suspect otherwise. But it wasn't the case, not with her.

_There's always more…_

"Are you alright?" Brandon asked, concern returning. "You look pale all of a sudden. Do you need to sit down?"

Hermione shook her head, smiled. "I'm okay," she assured him. "But I really should get going."

Brandon nodded. "Do you need help carrying your things? I can walk you to wherever you're headed," he offered.

Hermione shook her head again. "Thank you, but I can manage."

"You're sure?" he asked, uncertain.

Hermione nodded. "I'm sure." On an impulse, she stood on her tiptoes, kissed his cheek. "You're sweet to ask, though," she told him.

Slowly she began to walk away. "I'll see you around!" Brandon called after her, his charming smile wide.

She smiled kindly over her shoulder, but said nothing.

* * *

Draco lingered in the shadows, watching the scene play out through narrowed eyes. What was Madison saying to her? What was she saying to him? Hermione's dark curls were blowing softly in the breeze, wisps of it reaching out, almost touching the man in front of her. She was standing close to him, _too_ close, and Draco was filled with the urge to march forward and tear them apart.

"I've been looking everywhere for you." Pansy Parkinson's voice was beside him, low and interested. "Where have you been?"

"Around," he said shortly, his silver eyes glaring at the couple in the distance. Was that a _smile_ on her face? What could that _ponce _have said to make her smile? He concentrated on lip-reading, but it was next to impossible.

"Around," Pansy repeated, one sculpted brow raised. "Well, no need to get specific."

Draco heard the sarcasm and ignored it. It was easy to do when his mind was focused on Hermione, on the man who was trying to steal her away—and by the looks of it, succeeding.

"What are you staring at?" Pansy asked, faintly annoyed, following Draco's line of sight. Her eyes narrowed at what she saw. "What is Brandon Madison doing with _her_?"

It was something Draco himself was desperate to discover.

"You know, now that I think about it, I faintly remember hearing somewhere that he asked her to the Halloween Dance," she said after another moment. "I assumed it was just a rumor."

The dance? Madison was taking her to the dance? The sudden unwanted picture of Hermione wrapped up in someone else's arms flashed through his mind, making him furious.

"_Such _a waste," the girl beside him was saying. "Good looks, a well-respected family name—and just look what he chooses to do with it. It's positively sickening."

The open archway was drowned in noise. Wind was rushing through, rustling leaves as it passed. Younger students were playing some sort of game just beyond the stone benches, shouting and laughing as they chased each other around. A professor was in the corner, scolding some older boys for misbehaving. And Pansy's voice was right beside him, droning on like a tone-deaf alto in the back of a choir.

But all of a sudden, the world went quiet, still. All sound disappeared and everything went completely silent as he watched Hermione lift to her toes and press her lips softly against the other man's cheek.

Jealousy surged through Draco's veins, pumping his blood two times faster than normal. Rage glimmered in his eyes as he watched Hermione smile at Madison, and fury settled deep within him as he watched Madison smile back. There was fire in his heart, in his blood, in his brain, blending with an icy waterfall of hate.

His cold eyes followed Hermione as she walked from the courtyard, leaving a deliriously happy Brandon Madison behind.

And then suddenly, Draco was going after her, not knowing what he was going to do, knowing he needed to do _something_.

"Where are we going?" Pansy asked, hurrying after him.

"I have some things I need to deal with," he answered curtly, not slowing. "Don't follow me."

"But Draco—"

He stopped, his eyes staring dangerously into hers "I said: Don't. Follow. Me." He began walking again, abandoning Pansy where she stood.

"I'll see you later, then," she called expectantly, but he was already gone.

* * *

Hermione walked slowly to her dormitory, moving silently through the centaur portrait, then through the lion one. Taking a breath, she turned to the bathroom door, opened it.

The mirror beckoned to her, softly calling her name. She stepped to it, her gaze assessing the woman she found there. Madam Pomfrey's dubious vials of potion and herbal teas had helped her gain a pound or two. The dark circles under her eyes were a shade lighter than she remembered, probably from her days stuck sleeping in bed. No one else would have noticed the minor changes, but the girl Hermione saw in the glass was completely unfamiliar.

Her hand moved to the diamond at her chest. It was heavy against her heart, though whether it was a literal weight or an emotional one, she couldn't say.

She thought of Brandon. He was smart, charming, handsome, kind. He was an easy escape from her overprotective friends. He was simple, calm—everything she needed.

Everything she needed, and nothing she wanted.

Her fingers lightly held the glittering stone. It was a ball and chain now, binding her to Draco Malfoy, taking her willpower away to a place where she couldn't get it back. Things had changed. Suddenly, she wanted to be near him, to hear his voice. The memory of his arms around her, holding her, rocking her, made her heart ache inside her chest.

There was nothing simple about him. Where Brandon was easy, Malfoy was hard. Where Brandon was calm, Malfoy was intense. Any interaction with him would only complicate things more… for her, for him, for Harry, Ginny, and Ron.

Reaching around her neck, she started to undo the chain's clasp. She had to uncomplicate things.

"What are you doing?"

Hermione turned to face the sharp voice. Draco was there, just inside the door, his face cold, his eyes dark.

"I'm taking it off," she answered quietly.

"I can see that," he snapped. "Why are you doing it?"

Hermione shrugged, the movement small, muted. "Do I need a reason?"

"No," he said, repeating the words she'd once spoken to him. "But you have one." She didn't respond, only shook her head. It wasn't enough for Draco. "Well?" he asked again.

"I can't wear it anymore. I should have never put it on," she whispered, looking away from his face and back into the mirror. "I should have never accepted it in the first place."

Draco took a powerful step forward. "Why?" Another step forward. "Because it's not from Madison?" Another. "Because it's from me?"

Hermione backed away from him. "No."

"Then why?" He took another step. "Why?" Another. "Tell me."

Hermione's back hit the wall. She was trapped. Trapped by the wall, held against it by his eyes, accusing and desperate. Strangely, a part of her didn't want to break free.

He closed the distance between them, stopping a breath away from her. They were so close they were almost touching, her eyes just underneath his. "Why, Granger," he whispered, searching her face.

She looked up into his silver eyes, her gold ones breaking. "Because it's beautiful," she whispered, hating herself, hating him.

Her answer swept the anger away, and another stronger emotion took its place. He reached out then, unable to stop himself, bringing his palm to the side of her face... pushing a silky lock of hair behind her ear. He couldn't tear his eyes away.

_Beautiful…_

Draco's gaze fell to her lips. The timing was all wrong...

Or was it just right?

His head bent of its own accord, his breath mingling with hers. "_You're _beautiful," he heard himself say, just before his lips met hers.

Hermione felt his mouth lightly moving over hers, and the earth underneath her tilted to the side. Familiar dizziness filled her, completed her, but a different hunger was the cause this time. She had thought she was numb… but she was _feeling_ again, something new, something _strong_. Draco's hands framed her face, gentle and sure. How could she be dead inside? How, when this river of emotions washed through her, bringing her back to life? Draco's lips caressed hers with reverent care, holding her, assuring her that she wasn't dreaming...

_And she was clean. She could start tomorrow clean_

Her lips were soft… so soft. The kiss was slow and gentle, meaningful and pure. Draco had imagined this, had dreamt of it, but those dreams paled in comparison to the reality. Hermione rose to her tiptoes, wrapping her arms around his neck. He knew he had never experienced anything right, anything real, until this moment.

Draco parted their lips and let his forehead rest against hers. Their breathing was ragged, their hearts pounding like drums.

Hermione swallowed, a puzzled line appearing between her brows. "I…_ feel_," she whispered in wonder.

Draco slowly pulled his face back an inch. "What do you feel?" he asked, bringing her hand from his neck to his face, holding it there against one defined cheekbone.

She shook her head, her frown becoming a soft smile, slow and full of awe. "It doesn't matter," she told him with a quiet laugh. Her bright eyes looked from his stormy ones to his lips, and then back again. "All that matters is that I do."

He didn't smile back, couldn't.

But he also couldn't resist dragging her lips back to his.


	7. A Dark Responsibility

_Saving You Summary—DMHG. Hermione Granger has a secret, one that's literally killing her. Who will come to her rescue? What if the only one who can is Draco Malfoy? Rated M for sexual content (including rape), suicide ideation, and violence._

_Disclaimer—Most of the characters and a lot of the setting belong to J.K. Rowling. The rest is mine._

A/N: Last updated Dec. 12, 2009.

* * *

**:::A Dark Responsibility:::**

Draco lay flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling. He couldn't sleep. The taste of Hermione Granger was still on his lips, wonderful, warm, and sweet. His mind kept replaying the way her soft mouth had moved with his, innocently following where he led. The high of being close to her, of touching her, was slowly starting to wear off, and the comedown was leaving him pining for more.

Kissing her had been powerful… perfect.

And stupid.

At the end of the month, he would be a full-fledged Death Eater. He would be Marked and Joined to the First Circle—the elite ring reserved only for the Master's most loyal followers and trusted friends. He would be the embodiment of everything Granger had fought against her entire life. And she would be the embodiment of everything he should despise.

He sighed. He should have been angry with himself, with his weakness. He should have been _furious_. He knew what the future held, knew that it didn't, _couldn't_, hold Hermione. He should _never _have kissed her—he knew that, knew better.

But how could he be sorry? How, when he wanted to do it again? And again… and again, and again…

Draco shifted restlessly. He hadn't had a decent night's sleep in years, not since he had realized his fate, realized that there was no escaping it. And now the price was higher than it had ever been before, because now there was Hermione to think about, to protect.

Frustrated, he sat up, swinging his legs off the bed. He'd always known who he would have to be, what he would have to become. The thought had always been torture, but it had never _killed _him before now. How would he live, how _could_ he? He'd always remember that one kiss… _that one girl_. He'd always think of her, dream of her.

But that's all he could do. _Dream._

Draco rose from the bed, began to pace. God, what he wouldn't give for a way out, a way back. But there was nothing to do. None of his options ended the way he needed them to—which was just another way of saying he didn't have any options at all.

Needing some sort of relief from the growing emptiness, he opened the balcony door and stepped out into the cool night air. The moonlit sky looked the same as it always did, but for some reason, he hadn't tired of its beauty. It reminded him of her: consistent, but never boring; familiar and distinct; intense, but somehow calming; _safe._ The vista in front of him housed memories, new and overpowering, memories that bonded them to one another. They had both looked out from this very place and shared their first moment, built their first connection. And it was on the jagged cliffs below that everything had changed forever.

He looked away from the dark image of the lake, his eyes shifting to Hermione's door. Her curtain was drawn, shielding her from his view. Was she awake, he wondered? Or was she asleep, dreaming peacefully? All of a sudden, he _had_ to know. He needed to see her, if only to have a glimpse of her as she slept…

He moved the short distance to the door, reaching out for the handle. He would check on her—just for a moment. And then he would go back to his own room, back to the cold, lonely silence.

He turned the gold handle, silently opening the door and peering in. Hermione lay beneath the covers, her back facing him. _Alright, Malfoy. You've done it. You've checked on her and she's fine. Now close the door and walk away…_ But his legs were already carrying him into the room, ignoring his mind's commands.

Draco rounded the bed, bringing Hermione's face into view. She looked peaceful, like a slumbering princess in a tower, waiting silently for her prince. Unable to help himself, he sat on the edge of the bed, reaching a hand out to pet the soft curls away from her face.

_Beautiful..._

Unable to keep his hand still, he let it skim down her cheek, feeling her soft skin brush against his knuckles like silk.

"It isn't real, you know." Hermione's broken voice was a soft whisper in the silence. She was watching him, her eyes riveted to his face as he caressed her. Their gazes met, held, and her honey eyes sparkled in the darkness. "It's just a spell."

The words didn't stop Draco from touching her, though he knew that was their intent. Instead, he continued to stroke her, combing through her hair with his fingers, letting the silken texture sooth all the nerves inside of him, inside of her. There were no words to take away the pain, the past, no way to undo what had been done. All he could do was hold her close, letting his touch reassure her that she would be okay. That, finally, she would be safe.

"You shouldn't feel sorry for me," she whispered, mistaking the dark emotion in his silver eyes for pity. She looked away from him, her gaze traveling to her hands, her forearms, saddening at the hidden scars. "I did most of it to myself."

Draco shook his head. "No you didn't," he told her quietly, putting his finger under her chin, tilting her gaze back up to his. "Not really."

There was silence, and then Hermione was smiling a soft, tired smile. "You must be cold," she said after a moment. She scooted herself over, one inch, two, leaving just enough space for another body inside the bed. Slowly, she pulled the covers back. "Here—get in."

Draco stayed where he was, staring at the new space with a frown, his willpower warring with his desires. Blaise was right. This was dangerous—and it was becoming more and more hazardous with each passing second. Before, he had used convenience as justification to stay the night with her. But now there were no words, no excuses to hide behind.

She was letting him in, not understanding the peril. How could he get into the bed, knowing that he wasn't just bringing himself, but a world of darkness, too? How could he sleep by her side, with her in his arms, knowing no matter how innocently he held her, he would never _be_ innocent. Knowing it could never be harmless.

But how could he _not_, when she was right there in front of him, her eyes bright with hope. How could he deny her… or himself?

"You don't have to," she whispered, misreading his hesitance.

But he _wanted_ to. More than anything, he wanted _her_, to sleep innocently beside her, to hold her close. But there was more to think about than wants and desires. There was more to consider than this one desperate wish. He had to protect her, whatever the cost.

Even if the cost was his last chance at happiness. Even if the person he had to protect her from was himself.

"I shouldn't," he said finally, his voice low.

Hermione smiled quizzically, not understanding. "I thought that falling asleep wasn't against the law," she said softly. "Isn't that what you told me?"

Draco shrugged, looked to the darkened curtain so he wouldn't have to meet her gaze. "You were right. With us it is."

"Maybe." She shook her head, her eyes turning curious. "I thought the infamous Draco Malfoy didn't acknowledge laws or limits," she said quietly. Draco's jaw tightened. "I thought you liked to break the rules." When he didn't answer, she smiled. "Suddenly scared to take a chance, Malfoy?"

_With you? Terrified. _But he didn't say it.

Hermione looked away, staring at something across the room. "I am, too, you know," she said after a long moment.

Draco frowned. "What?"

Hermione looked back, meeting his gaze. "Afraid."

It was the truth. For the first time in a long, _long _time, she felt afraid. And like any emotion, she was cherishing its rarity, not bothering to question its root or reason.

Draco closed his eyes. Could she possibly know what he was feeling, what he was thinking? Could she possibly understand?

_Yes…_

"Really, you don't have to stay," she repeated, this time in the barest of whispers.

The words baited his conscience, and Draco clenched his jaw. She's giving you a way out, Malfoy, his mind was saying. Take it. Get out while you still can. But he suddenly realized that there was no use fighting. If he left now he would only be back again—if not tonight then tomorrow, or the day after that. He wouldn't be able to keep himself away.

With one last haunted look at the door, he slowly climbed into the bed beside her, pulling the sheets over himself. Hermione came into his arms, resting her head against his shoulder and her hand against his heart. He could smell her shampoo and the scent of her lotion, light and clean, reminding him of spring.

He looked down at her face, so close to his. She was already asleep, a soft smile on her lips. The show of trust hurt his heart, made it burn with guilt. She shouldn't trust him. He wasn't the kind of man she needed, the kind of man she _deserved_.

He wasn't _good_.

But now that he was holding her, it was easy to forget about that—about the darkness inside of him, about the Mark that would seal that darkness there forever. She was here in his arms, making everything right. There was nothing to worry about, nothing to think about except this one moment in Eden. He couldn't think of evil, or Eaters, or duty, or pain. Nothing and no one could touch him, no one but her.

He gently kissed her forehead before closing his silver eyes. It was only a matter of minutes before he followed her into the unfamiliar realm of peaceful sleep.

* * *

"_Well, friends, it's the afternoon of the first official quidditch match, and what a beautiful afternoon it is. Not too hot, not too cold, and just the right amount of sun to kick off this year's season. Now all we're waiting for are the teams to make their entrance…"_

Ron groaned as he heard the familiar sound of the announcer Sam Blotty's voice projecting up over the Hogwarts stadium. "Brilliant. That's just _bloody_ brilliant! The match has already started!" He looked behind him, making a face at the two girls with linked arms trailing slowly across the grass. "Oi! Take your time, why don't you! Not like we're in a hurry or anything!"

Ginny rolled her eyes. "There's obviously something wrong with your hearing, Ronald. The players haven't even taken the field."

"Yeah, well, Blotty's already started announcing, which means there's no chance there'll be even _one_ decent seat left," he argued over his shoulder, annoyed. "The stands are _packed_ by now!"

"Ron, Seamus agreed to save us seats so we wouldn't feel the need to rush there," Harry reminded his friend, his voice chastising. He looked behind him, lowered his voice. "You promised you wouldn't get impatient and overstress Mione," he added quietly. "Remember?"

Ron sighed. "Oh. Yeah. Sorry." He looked reluctantly apologetic, and turned, walking backwards. "Take your time," he called dutifully before turning back. "She doesn't look as tired today, though, does she?" he asked his friend.

Harry glanced over his shoulder, taking in Hermione's smiling face, her sure step. "No, actually," he agreed after a moment. There was a tint of surprise in his voice. "She looks… better."

Ron smiled. "Normal, almost."

"Yeah. Almost."

They entered the towering stands, moving up the stairs to the seating area above. The place was crowded with Gryffindors, some standing, some sitting, everyone eager for their favorite sport to officially begin.

"Harry! Ron!" Seamus' voice carried over the excitement. "Over here!" They looked, finding their friend as he waved energetically from his place in the middle of the front row.

"I'll stay here to help the girls get through," Harry said, watching for Ginny and Hermione. "You go ahead and help save our spaces."

Ron nodded, already eagerly pushing his way through the crowded row. "Watch where you're stepping, you berk!" someone complained loudly, irritated. The people around him began to groan, as well, telling him to go to the back.

"I've got seats saved, so _sod off_!" Ron shouted back, forcing his body through the aggravated horde. He reached Seamus, who was holding off a few third years from taking the empty seats.

"I was about to give up," the boy told him with a smile.

"The girls felt like taking their sweet time," Ron informed him, rolling his eyes. "I guess it's better for Mione, anyway."

Seamus was about to remark when he noticed Harry at the end of the row. "The crowd is giving them trouble," he observed with a frown. Ron turned. Their fellow Gryffindors were shouting insults, making it hard to maneuver through.

"We were here first! Go to the back! There's no more room up here!"

"Well then _make room!"_ Harry snapped, leading a silent Hermione by the hand. Ginny followed just behind, holding tightly to her other hand, sending intimidating stares to the people around them, protecting her friend.

They finally reached the saved space, ignoring the rolling eyes and shaking heads of their annoyed peers. Harry let Hermione and Ginny pass in front of him, situating them protectively between himself and Ron.

"You okay, Mione?" Ron asked, helping her down into the seat beside him. She nodded, taking a deep breath. Ginny sat, too, linking arms with her friend once again and beginning to chat about one thing or another.

"_And finally, here they are! Leading Ravenclaw onto the pitch is captain Marco Bolter. His team is looking stronger than ever this year, ranking first in the preseason scrimmages."_

The entire crowd was on its feet, erupting into massive cheering—and, inevitably, some booing—as the team moved onto the field below.

Hermione stood as well, holding on to Ginny's arm. She watched quietly as the blue-and-bronze players paced out to the center of the field. Brandon Madison was down there, she knew, playing as the Ravenclaw Seeker. Her eyes searched for him, but it was impossible to recognize one player from another at such a distance.

Marco Bolter, a tall, sharp-featured boy, was the first to take the air. His team followed in suit, jumping onto their brooms and lifting up off of the ground. They created a line, beginning their pre-game warm-up drill.

"_And here are their competitors, the Slytherin team, led by Captain and Seeker, Draco Malfoy."_

A handful of people made their way onto the pitch, clad in green and sliver robes. Once again, the crowd erupted into noise.

"_Malfoy and his team were annihilated by Ravenclaw in the preseason. This is the perfect opportunity for them to get their revenge and prove that the Slytherin dynasty is, in fact, still alive."_

Hermione's eyes were glued to Draco as he moved up off the ground. The Slytherin team followed after him, obeying his hard commands.

"_Here beside me is our resident analyst, Div Prescott. Div, what does Slytherin need to do to regain footing in this year's season?"_

"_Well, Sam, sheer size and brute force don't win you a quidditch match, and I think that's something Slytherin learned in the preseason. They're really going to need to work on technique and tighten their offense to even have a _chance_ at the championship. Maybe they should channel old Salazar's famous love of cunning instead of his tendency for violence..."_

Hermione watched Draco as he directed his team, smiling softly at the focus on his face, the severity in his eyes. He was easily ignoring Div Prescott's criticism, his concentration dedicated completely to his team. She felt a strange sense of pride, surprisingly similar to how she felt when she watched Ron make a save at the goalposts or saw Harry catch the Snitch. It was a warm sensation, one that made her feel almost… happy.

Suddenly Ginny was grabbing her arm, holding tightly. "Don't look now, Mione, but a certain Halloween Dance date is headed this way..."

Hermione shifted her gaze, easily finding Brandon's form as it glided towards the stands. He stopped in midair a few feet off, smiling charmingly in her direction. "Good day, fair maiden," he called to her.

Ginny was squeezing Hermione's hand excitedly, but she didn't feel any of that same exhilaration. "Hello," she returned awkwardly.

"What are you _doing_, Madison?" his captain called. "Get back to the drill!"

Brandon looked over his shoulder, then back again. "I was hoping for a token, milady," he said. "Something for good luck."

Hermione pursed her lips. "A token? I can't…" She laughed with nerves. "That is, I don't have one."

"Here—you can use this." The ever-helpful Ginny had her arms around Hermione's neck, quickly undoing her red-and-gold tie and handing it to her friend.

Hermione looked at it a moment, not sure how to react. She decided on a smile, quickly pasting one on and directing it Brandon's way. "Alright. Here—come closer." He eased his broom forward. "Um… hold out your arm." He did, smiling into her chocolate-gold eyes as she carefully tied the material around his bicep.

"_What's this? Div, it looks like Ravenclaw Seeker, Brandon Madison, has opted out of his warm-up to get a good-luck charm from a special someone in the stands!"_

"_Yes, and it looks like it's our lovely Head Girl, Hermione Granger!"_

A focused Draco suddenly found his head snapping up at the echoed words. Had they said _Hermione Granger_? His silver eyes were instantly searching the stands, scanning from tower to tower. They narrowed, easily finding the spectacle. That damned wanker, Madison, was floating in front of her—was _flirting _with her. And she appeared to be smiling back.

"Should we switch sides?" someone asked from behind him, referring to the drill. Draco gritted his teeth, the every part of him that had been focused on the game now focused on the girl. "Malfoy!"

"What?" he snapped, turning.

"Should we switch sides?" the boy asked again.

"What do you think?" he spat with censure. "Yes. Switch sides. You shouldn't have to ask me! You should just know to do it!" He turned his broom back to face the scene, jealousy raging through him in bright green flames. He wanted to _kill_ Madison, beat him until he was nothing but dust for touching what he'd already claimed as his.

Draco wasn't the only one who was angry. "Madison, stop messing around and come warm up! Now!" Marco Bolter was practically screaming at his friend, his face red with frustration.

"Marco seems angry," Harry informed Brandon with crossed his arms. "Maybe you should…" He trailed off and nodded towards the Ravenclaw team.

The other man chose not follow his advice, only continued to smile at a quiet Hermione.

Harry turned his skeptical gaze from Brandon, exchanging a frown with Ron. This was a new development, he thought. One he wasn't sure he liked.

"Madison!"

Brandon looked over his shoulder. "Coming!" He turned back to Hermione. "I shall win this tournament for you, milady," he told her, flashing a smile that would have made any girl blush—any girl but her. She watched, feeling vaguely uncomfortable as he patted the tie she'd wrapped around his arm and flew off to rejoin his teammates.

Ginny smiled at Hermione, holding their joined hands to her heart. "_That _was _beautifully_ conceived," she said, sighing romantically. "God, Mione, you didn't tell me it was serious."

"You didn't tell _us _at all," Ron put in loudly, sending a protective glare Brandon's way.

Hermione sighed, looking around self-consciously. She sat, dragging Ron down by the sleeve. "I didn't tell you because it _isn't _serious," she explained, lowering her voice. "He asked me to the dance and I said yes. That's all."

"He asked you to the dance?" Harry asked, sitting too, leaning in. "When was this?"

"I don't know. A while ago."

"A while ago," Ron repeated hotly. "And you didn't _say_ _anything_?"

"Obviously I didn't think it was a big deal," she argued tiredly.

"Well it isn't a _little_ deal when he comes over here in the middle of a quidditch match—"

"The match hasn't even begun."

"And starts spouting medieval gibberish like some lovesick ponce!"

Ginny wrapped a defensive arm around Hermione and glared at her brother. "Oh, _really _mature, Ron," she said sarcastically. "God, the two of you are like a pair of hovering parents. You don't _own _Hermione! She can date whomever she wants—with or _without _your consent!"

Hermione shook her head, covering Ron's hand with her own. "We're _not _dating, though," she insisted quietly, looking from his blue eyes to Harry's green ones. "I would tell you."

They backed down, nodding, but they weren't admitting defeat. They would have to do some further investigation on Brandon Madison and on the situation before deciding how they felt and if they approved. If Madison thought he could just waltz in and whisk Hermione away, he had another thing coming. They had almost lost her once, and it would _never_ happen again.

"_And Madam Hooch is finally making her way onto the pitch. It looks like the quidditch match will begin at last…"_

Draco looked to the stands one final time. This time Hermione met his gaze, her warm brown eyes colliding with his silver ones. The look on her face was soft, but it did nothing to comfort him. His jaw clenched, the raw fury not ebbing an inch. Sharply, he guided his broom away, breaking the connection.

Madam Hooch came to stand at the center circle. "You know how it goes. Follow the rules, play fair—and no funny business from any of you." With a nod, she released the balls and the players zoomed into a flurry of motion.

Only Draco and Brandon were unmoving, both of them urging their brooms with muted force, floating instead of flying. Their eyes studied the air around them, hunting for the gleam of gold. Their gazes linked briefly in the silent search—met in passing, really. But for that single second their eyes connected, an unspoken hostility surged between them, a threat posed by one, understood by the other.

"_Ravenclaw Chaser, Terry Boot, holds the Quaffle—he's heading down the field—and look at that!—He makes a clean pass to Pamela Martin—Martin, moving in those tricky circles she loves so much, outsmarting the Slyth—Oh! And she's been hit by a powerful Bludger sent by Vincent Crabbe—Slytherin takes possession of the Quaffle…"_

Everyone was on their feet, eagerly watching the excitement, cheering when their team made a pass, groaning when it was intercepted. But Hermione's eyes were riveted away from the action, on the two Seekers that rested in midair. Their brooms were level, keeping them at a close but safe distance from one another. There was a kind of tension flowing in the space between them, an intensity that was almost tangible. Was it just the pressures of the sport? Was it just that athletic, masculine need to win the game? Or had something more than a quidditch match wedged its way between them, something like... a girl…

Hermione shook her head, pushing the thought away. There wasn't enough between her and either of them to warrant a battle of possessiveness.

Her eyes moved to Draco, softened. Oh, but how she suddenly wished there was.

"_Slytherin Chaser, Claudius Stark, has the Quaffle—he's really flying—Sandra Peterman trying to knock him out—He forces her back with one hard push!—She spins out! She's still spinning, still spinning! God, what a hit! Div, I think maybe brute force does_ _help to win a match after all!"_

Draco could see the Ravenclaw Chaser out of the corner of his eye. He didn't let it take his attention away from the task at hand. Jaw clenched, he searched the sky, keeping his thoughts focused. Get the Snitch. Win the game. _Teach that whelp a lesson._ The words repeated over and over in his head, fueled by the picture of Hermione securing her school tie around Madison's arm.

She was watching. He could feel her eyes on him, silent, waiting. He didn't look back, didn't even glance. Instead, he turned his gaze to Brandon Madison. The boy was slowly turning his broom, taking a full intake of the place, searching for that tiny, elusive ball. Draco shook his head. He _had _to win.

Win the game. _Win Hermione._

Just then, the glimmer of gold whizzed in between them. Their gazes clashed, one second, two. And then they were off.

"_The Seekers are moving—the Snitch has been spotted and the race is on!"_

Hermione's friends jumped to their feet again, but this time she stayed seated. Cheering exploded around her, the crowd egging their favorite Seeker on. But as she watched both boys rocket from one side of the field to the other, she didn't make a sound.

Wind was whipping against Draco's face, almost painfully. He was just ahead of Madison, his hand outstretched for the Snitch. One increment further, and he would have it!

The glittering orb suddenly switched directions, causing both of them to swerve. Madison was leading now, but only by an inch. Draco could hear Sam Blotty's voice announcing in the back of his mind, and the faint echo of screaming applause was in his ears. But none of that motivated him. No, it was the memory of that day in the courtyard, that split second Hermione had lifted to her toes to kiss Madison's cheek. It was the image of Madison wearing her damned tie around his bicep that brought back the bright green rage.

With unrestrained force, Draco swung his broom left, ramming Madison, shoving the man's body with his own. Brandon looked over his shoulder, murder in his eyes, and shoved back with all his might. Draco smiled coldly. He pushed his broom faster, piercing through the air with powerful strength, keeping his eyes on the Snitch as it changed directions once again.

"_Madison and Malfoy are really running! It looks like they're playing as close to dirty as they can get!"_

Slowly, Hermione stood. Silently, she stepped forward. Her hands unconsciously wrapped around the railing as she watched the two boys race side by side, both of them stretching a hand for the little glimmer of gold that was just out of reach. They were both so close that it was impossible to tell who was leading and who was trailing just behind.

They were shoving back and forth, smashing harder and harder with each hit. "Give it up, Malfoy!" Brandon shouted, his eyes intent on the little golden ball.

The words incensed Draco. He heard them over the whistle of wind, but nothing could have muted what they meant… Give it up. I'm taking it. The Snitch. _Hermione._

The jealous fury was back sevenfold. Irate, he propelled his broom faster, piercing through the air.

"_Malfoy has a spurt of speed! Have you ever seen him go that fast, Div?"_

Hermione gripped the rail tighter, her eyes intense as they followed the two Seekers. There was only one thought inside of her, so strong that she was silently mouthing the words.

_Come on. Come… on…_

It was all Draco's brain could process, all he could think. He was so close he could taste it, feel it. The Snitch was at his fingertips, if only he could just… reach… it…

And then the voice in his head transformed, became hers. _Come on_, she urged softly. _Come on._ He saw his opening then, as the Snitch streamed right. Draco forced his body to the left for one last hit, reaching out for the golden ball at the same time. Their shoulders collided, forcing Madison away, rolling his broom. They hit hard, hard enough to grit Draco's teeth.

But he smiled against the pain as his fingers closed around the cool metallic sphere.

"_And he does it! Draco Malfoy catches the Snitch! Slytherin wins, 150 to 0!"_

Hermione released her death-grip on the railing. The crowd around her groaned and booed, but she was silent, only the barest hint of a smile on her face.

Ginny took her hand, sighing. "But Prince Charming is supposed to win the battle," she complained with a shake of her head. "There really is no justice in the world."

Hermione nodded, but she couldn't help thinking that she much preferred the Black Knight.

* * *

Draco dismounted his broom, leading the Slytherin team off the quidditch pitch. They were serious, almost businesslike, as if they had been the losers and not the other way around.

The Ravenclaws were huddled together at the edge of the field, wiping sweat from their brows and patting each other's backs in support. Their heads snapped up as the Slytherin Captain passed, their faces speaking volumes to the group in green and grey.

Draco walked by without even glancing in their direction.

"I always knew you were a bastard, Malfoy," declared a voice from behind him. "But I never pegged you as a cheat."

He stopped at the words, turned. His team parted like the Red Sea, making it possible for him to see his accuser. It was Brandon Madison, of course, his eyes narrowed and glaring. Draco said nothing, but his grip on his broom tightened. He reached deep inside himself for patience.

"You played a dirty game, Malfoy. Right from the start." Still, Malfoy said nothing, causing Brandon's eyes to slit. "That last hit was a cobb—you know it was."

Draco wasn't intimidated. His gaze moved coldly from Brandon's eyes to his arm. The deep-red tie was still there, barely, the knot loosened by wind and play. His jaw clenched at the sight. The material stood out against the blue and bronze robes, though no one could say the colors complimented each other.

"I don't recall Hooch calling it a foul," he stated icily.

"Well we're off to challenge that oversight now," the other man assured him. "We'll be petitioning her for a rematch." The other Ravenclaws were nodding their support. "We'll be seeing you on the pitch again, and soon," Brandon spat. "Perhaps the next time we can play a gentleman's game."

The Slytherins looked at each other, then at their Captain, waiting for him to speak—waiting for his infamous wrath. He surprised them all by slowly moving forward, taking one step, two, purposefully closing the distance between Madison and himself.

Brandon raised his chin, unafraid, and didn't so much as retreat an inch. He waited, expecting threats to fly, punches to be thrown. But nothing came except the hard stare of silver eyes. They glared with a searing hate he didn't quite understand. He shook his head, not letting himself wonder about the source of the loathing. Instead, he stared back, his eyes telling the world that he wasn't scared of the so-called Slytherin Prince. "Don't think that you've won," he said, his voice spitting daggers. "That move _wasn't_ legal. This game should have been ours."

Draco only smiled coldly. Without warning, his hand rose, grabbing the end of Hermione's tie and pulling it loose from its place around the other man's arm.

"Hey!"

Draco ignored the protest. Instead, he regarded the material in his hand. "A good luck charm, eh?" he asked condescendingly, studying the red and gold threads. His eyes shifted back to the Ravenclaw Seeker, harsh and cold. "Better _luck_ next time, I guess." And then he turned and began to stride from the field, taking the supposed token of luck with him.

"Where are you going with that?" Brandon shouted. "Bring it here! Oi! _Bring that back!_"

"Give it up, Madison!" Draco called without stopping, returning Brandon's words with dangerous force.

_Give it up. I won't let you take what's mine. Not the Snitch…_

His fingers clamped around the tie.

_And not_ _Hermione.

* * *

_

Hermione entered slowly through the centaur portrait, wiped out from the day's excitement. Tiredly, she moved to the sofa, reaching up to untie her hair, letting her wild curls fall over her shoulders. She sat, curling her legs under her, resting her head against the cushioned scroll-end armrest.

God, what a spectacle Brandon had made. What a mess he'd created. A simple dance date had suddenly turned into some kind of courtship, and Hermione certainly wasn't ready for that. When she'd accepted Brandon's invitation to the Halloween Dance, she'd been inspired by his easiness, his lack of complication. But in the course of a single quidditch match, things had gone strangely awry. And she was starting to understand now that she didn't want the light, flirtatious, airy relationship that Brandon had to offer. She wanted the _real_ one, the intense, all-consuming one. The one that Draco offered in his own coded, complicated way.

What was the matter with her traitorous heart? Why couldn't it beat for Brandon the way it did for Draco Malfoy? Life would be so much simpler that way, wouldn't it? But hearts don't listen to reason or follow orders; she was learning that the hard way.

"I was told this belongs to you."

Hermione's eyes opened at the low voice. Draco was suddenly there in front of her, as if summoned by her silent thoughts. His white-blond hair was wet, damp strands falling across his eyes. He was just out of the shower, she realized. Her cheeks warmed as an image of him flashed before eyes, water streaming down his naked skin, running across the toned muscles underneath.

"Granger." He held out his hand, where the red school tie dangled in his grasp. "Your tie."

She blinked, mortified, her face going hot as she met his gaze. "Oh." She reached out, taking it, then looking up at him strangely. "Where did you find this?"

Draco ran a hand through his wet hair. "Around Madison's arm," he answered unapologetically.

Hermione looked down again, unable to meet his hard gaze. "Oh," she said again. "Did he… did he give it to you to give back to me?"

"You could say that," was all he said.

Hermione frowned, looked up again. "You didn't… _take_ it from him, did you?"

Draco's eyes narrowed. "What if I did? Would it really matter?" Hermione didn't answer. "Did you want him to keep it?" he pressed after a moment, his voice disapproving. "A good luck charm for the next quidditch match, too?"

Hermione met the intense grey eyes above hers. "No," she told him honestly. "I never wanted him to have it to begin with."

Relief waterfalled through him, but he didn't let it show. Instead, he shrugged easily. "That must be why it didn't work."

Hermione nodded, holding back a secret smile. "Maybe." She stood, absently curling a light brown ringlet around her finger. "Well goodnight… Malfoy." She turned, walking slowly to the lion portrait at the other side of the room.

"Goodnight? It's barely six o'clock."

Hermione looked back, smiling quietly. "There's no rule against going to bed early, is there?"

Draco crossed his arms, his face stern. "No, but there _is_ a rule about skipping dinner. You can't go to bed without eating something, Granger."

Hermione sighed, turning all the way around. "I'm not really hungry," she explained warily. "And that really isn't a rule."

Draco stepped forward. "Then I'm making it one," he told her firmly.

Hermione rolled her eyes, exasperated. "What is it with all of you? I don't need constant supervision. I've been eating _just_ _fine_." She gestured to her body in frustration. "Can't you tell?"

His grey eyes moved over her, studying her body. He _could _tell, actually. In fact, there was a new awareness entering him, making his own body tense up. Her slight, frail form had taken on shape again, filling out the plain school uniform. Her body had been all angles before, but they had softened into curves, subtle, smooth, and totally hypnotizing. He was noticing her now, not the innocent beauty, but the womanly appeal, the kind that had his blood pumping red-hot through his veins. Her small breasts had become fuller, rounder, and Draco's hands itched to feel the weight for themselves. He longed to touch her, to let his palms brush down her abdomen, to let them rest at the light flare of hips. Had it really been only days ago that she'd been merely skin and bones?

Hermione regretted her bating words as soon as they spilled out. She felt her face heat, but she didn't look away as Draco's passionate gaze studied her. She could feel his eyes like hands as they moved up and down her body… and she swore her heart was suddenly beating in slow motion.

He wanted her, wanted her like he'd never wanted another woman. Before now, his thoughts about Hermione Granger had been completely pure—now, all of a sudden, they were purely lascivious. God, how had he slept beside her without feeling this raging need? How had he looked at her without wanting her like this?

Would it ever be possible to look at her that innocently again?

"I… I should go…" Hermione gripped the bunched up tie tightly in her hand, squeezing the material. She had to run, to escape his penetrating gaze. "I… should…"

"Go?" he finished. "You're right. You should."

Despite the words, neither of them moved. It was as if they were paralyzed. Hermione took a deep breath, in… out… willing her legs to press forward, step backward—anything to get her away. But Draco's silver eyes held her in place, bright, intense, like a predator as it watched its prey.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" she asked him quietly. Fear and excitement mixed like a drug inside of her, branching through her blood to her brain, turning her breath ragged.

The same drug had Draco in its grip. "You know why," he said, his voice dangerously low.

Hermione swallowed, her eyes widening just a bit. Yes, she knew. The air around them was practically _charged_ with sexual energy, and she could feel the sparks of tension all through her body, touching places she'd never even known existed.

"This… this is new," she whispered, unable to stop her gaze from scanning down his body. "This wasn't there before." Or maybe it had been there all along, just under the surface, waiting for the right moment to break free.

Draco took a step forward—another one—then another. Suddenly, he was in front of her, his body a breath away from hers. He reached out, lifting the hem of the white button-up shirt. One hand slowly passed underneath, gliding across the smooth skin of her abdomen, down her hip. The tender feelings of before were jagged and harsh now, the warmth turned up to a scorching heat. He had never touched her with sexual intent, with _desire_. But he did now, his hands gripping the flesh at her waist, pulling her body roughly against his.

Hermione couldn't catch her breath. Draco's hands were on her bare skin, lighting her body on fire. She could feel him against her, slowly pushing to get closer, the bulge in his pants pressing hard to her waist. There was dampness all around her, as if the air had suddenly turned humid. What had happened to the days of cool autumn? In the course of a single minute, the world had melted into summer.

Draco was burning from the inside out, desperate for more. He was struggling to hold back, to remind himself who he was, who _she_ was, trying to remember all the reasons why this was wrong. He opened his mouth against her throat, his tongue touching her skin.

"God, you're soft," he whispered hungrily, before shaking his head clear. "No—you should go. _I_ should go." He held her away before it could get any worse, taking a deep breath. "Go to bed," he told her after a moment, turning his head. "I'll bring you your food."

"But—"

"Go, I said!"

Hermione swallowed, nodded. She backed away and then turned, heading through the lion portrait to safety.

Draco waited for the sound of the painting to click shut before putting his head in his hands. Oh, God, what had he done?

And how was he going to stop himself from doing it again?

* * *

Harry and Ron looked up and down the Gryffindor table, their gazes searching in vain for Hermione. Blind panic threatened to break into consciousness, but both of them kept their fear at bay.

"Do you see her?" Harry asked, his voice low.

"No, mate. She isn't here," Ron said. "Maybe she's running late."

Harry turned, his eyes focused on the entrance. "Or maybe she's not coming at all."

Seamus looked up from his dinner, chewing noisily. "Big bloody deal!" he said sarcastically, not bothering to swallow.

Dean smiled. "Yeah. You know, if she isn't here it's _probably_ an indication that she isn't hungry," he informed them mildly.

But that was exactly what Harry and Ron were afraid of. And it was anything but funny.

What if she had relapsed into her depression? What if the endless days of starvation weren't over? What if she had never truly recovered from them to begin with? The thoughts propelled Harry up out of his seat. "I'll check on her," he decided, stepping over the bench.

"What for?" Dean asked. And then he shook his head, bemused. "Harry, she can't be with you _all _the time."

"We know that," Harry snapped, running a nervous hand through his hair.

"Then what's the problem?" Seamus asked with a smile, taking a giant gulp of water. "Don't get your knickers in a twist. I bet she's in her room—hiding from _you_, no doubt. You never give her any peace!"

The words struck a nerve and had Ron slamming his fists down, shaking the table. "_Why don't you just shut your mouth, eh_?" he thundered, shocking the laughter into silence. He was up out of his seat, hands raised threateningly at his friend.

"What the _fuck_ is your problem, mate?" Seamus asked, pushing himself up as well.

"You, man! You're my problem! Always talking about shit you know nothing about!"

"What are you on about?" Dean asked from his seat. He turned his narrowed gaze to Harry. "What's he on about?"

"Nothing." Harry tugged Ron by the sleeve, conscious of the attention they were attracting. "Let's go, Ron."

"Yeah, go!" Seamus taunted. He turned to Harry. "Take your mate out of here before he gets himself hurt!"

"Why you—!"

"_Come on_, Ron" Harry said, grabbing the boy's arm before he could lunge at Seamus. He pulled Ron away from the table. "_Let's go_."

"Good riddance!" Seamus called after them. "And don't come back until you've taken that stick out of your arse!" Shaking his head, he settled back into his seat. "Totally mental," he muttered, exchanging bewildered glances with the people around him. They nodded, turning their heads to watch as Harry dragged their furious friend from the room.

"Let go of me!" Ron spat once they were in the corridor, wrenching his arm away. Harry put his hands up, backed up a step. Ron shook his head, taking a deep breath, blowing it out again. "God, I want to _kill_ that git sometimes."

"I can see that. What the hell's gotten into you?"

Ron brought his hands to his forehead. "I just hate when they say stuff—you know, like it's some sort of _joke_."

"To them it _is_ a joke. They don't know her like we do." Harry sighed, rubbing his neck. "They don't know how it really is."

There was silence. After a while, Ron turned to his friend, a new vulnerability in his eyes. "Hey, Harry." Harry looked up. "You don't think Seamus is right…?"

"Right about what?"

Ron looked at the floor, hesitant. "About Mione," he said quietly. "What if she _is _hiding from us?"

"She isn't." But Harry wasn't sure.

Ron nodded. "You're probably right," he said with a shrug. "I just… worry sometimes."

Harry nodded. He knew the feeling.

What Dean had said was true. They _couldn't_ watch Hermione all the time—but they had to try. Because if they didn't, she might slip between the cracks again. How else could they be sure that she got enough rest, ate enough food? They couldn't trust her enough to do it on her own. If nothing else, this moment was evidence of _that_.

"The others just don't understand," Harry said, almost to himself. "We're doing what we have to do."

* * *

Draco was rounding the corner when a pair of familiar voices had him stopping short. It was Potter and Weasley, standing at the middle of the corridor. Quickly he stepped out of sight, moving back around the corner before he could be noticed.

Weasley was talking, passion obvious in his voice. He was angry at someone, or at something that had been said. Potter made a wry response, and then Ron was going on. His voice was slowly mellowing out, turning from something loud to a quieter resentment. "I just hate when they say stuff—" Draco heard him say, "you know, like it's some sort of _joke_."

"To them it _is _a joke. They don't know her like we do. They don't know how it really is."

Draco frowned as he listened. It was Hermione they were talking about. Who else could it be?

The voices were growing quieter with every word, and he leaned closer in an attempt to hear what they were saying.

"Hey, Harry… You don't think Seamus is right…?" Weasley asked, his voice serious.

_Right about what?_ Harry voiced the words just a second after Draco thought them.

"About Mione," Weasley answered. "What if she _is _hiding from us?"

"She isn't," Potter said shortly. Draco's eyes narrowed. The words were harsh, as if he was trying to convince himself that they were true.

"You're probably right. I just… worry sometimes."

It went silent, and Draco wondered if they were whispering now. He peered around corner, his head right up against the wall.

"The others just don't understand," he heard Harry say, his voice low... sad. "We're doing what we have to do."

Draco had hated these boys for as long as he could remember. He'd walked into this school, and very possibly this life, despising everything they did, everything they said, everything they were. He'd tortured them for years, and they had done the same to him. That's how it had always been.

But suddenly, for the first time, he felt a kinship to his rivals.

Shaking his head, he rounded the corner, putting on the familiar façade.

Harry and Ron's heads snapped around at the sound of footsteps behind them. Their eyes turned, narrowed, taking in the familiar face of Draco Malfoy.

"Malfoy," Harry acknowledged with a nod.

"Potter," he returned easily enough.

They watched each other in silence. "Where'd you come from?"

Draco merely smiled. "What, you can't tell from the accent?" he asked with mild sarcasm.

"We're not playing games," Ron said impatiently. "You know what he meant. Where'd you come from just now?"

Draco only raised a brow.

Harry took a deep breath, praying for patience, praying for anything but panic. "Listen, Malfoy, we just want to know if you've see Hermione."

Draco shrugged. Funny… he usually enjoyed baiting them more. But now it was almost tiring. It felt strangely like a chore. "Maybe I have and maybe I haven't," he said evasively. "Though I can't see how that's any of your business."

Ron sent him a sharp glare, his face going red. "It _is _our business!" he bellowed, fists clenched at his sides.

Harry sighed. "We don't have time to waste on you, Malfoy," he said resignedly. "Either you've seen her or you haven't."

Draco had a choice to make. He could do what he'd always done and not give a _flying fuck _about them or what they wanted. Or he could do something new and, for once in his life, show the empathy he was feeling inside.

What he decided on was something in between.

"I might have seen Granger an hour or so ago," he said finally, giving them what they wanted without surrendering his front. He shrugged with apathy, though he was feeling anything but apathetic.

Ron crossed his arms, his hands still fisted. "Where _might _you have seen her?"

"Well, we _do _share a dormitory, Weasley," the blond man told him mockingly.

"The dormitory." Ron scowled, then turned to his friend. "Has she just been… _sitting _up there, then?" he asked. The answer had insecurity doubling, had questions blazing, spreading fear like fire. _Was_ she trying to escape them? Could this be a new beginning to the starvation, the lifelessness... a new beginning to the end?

The same thoughts were running through Harry's mind. "Well has she?" he suddenly demanded, turning to his nemesis.

Draco looked between the two men, his face and eyes like stone. It had never been difficult for him to be harsh or sarcastic with his enemies. He didn't care about them, not about their wellbeing, and certainly not about their feelings—didn't even care when he was the one to threaten both. Their cold interactions never weighed on his conscience. In fact, he hadn't been at all sure he even _had _a conscience.

Until now.

He looked over his shoulder, wishing he had stayed out of sight, avoided interaction. He couldn't show an ounce of sympathy or understanding. Not for anyone—but especially not for _them_.

"I couldn't say," he said with sarcastic-sweet charm. "She's went to bed—and, as you might have guessed, I didn't join her."

Oh, but how he'd wanted to... The two men in front of him would never know just how _desperately_ he wanted _her_—to fall into her room, into her bed... into her body. They would never have guessed that the cold, arrogant Slytherin Prince was fighting back burning flames of desire for the mudblood Hermione Granger.

"Well, thank God for that," Ron said back with a scowl. "Because if you ever so much as _tried_ to get into Hermione's bed, I'd slice you apart until you were nothing but shreds of skin on the floor."

Draco smiled blandly at the irony. "Trust me, Weasley, if I ever _did_ end up sleeping with Granger, you wouldn't know a thing about."

Ron turned beet red. "Why don't you sod off, Malfoy."

"You want me to leave? But I thought we were having so much fun." The twin glowers he received had his smirk growing. Slowly, amusedly, he began to back away. "I guess I'll be seeing you, then."

"Not too soon, I hope," the redheaded man spat.

Draco only laughed and turned away, beginning to head down the corridor towards the Great Hall.

* * *

He returned to his common room with a plate of food in his hand.

Immediately, he crossed to the lion portrait. For the first time, it didn't growl as he approached, causing him to frown. The thing no longer perceived him as a threat, a sign that spoke volumes. A part of him was pleased, but another, bigger part of him was restless. His feelings for Granger didn't mean she was safe from him. In fact, they only increased the danger.

He knocked lightly, waited for a response. No one answered. He whispered the password and the painting swung open, permitting him to enter without so much as the slightest delay.

The room beyond was dark, bathed in the deep maroon of early night. Hermione was stretched out atop the covers of her bed, her eyes closed in sleep.

Draco placed the plate on her desk before stepping closer. She had fallen asleep still clothed in her school blouse and skirt, and they were creased with wrinkles from being slept on. He couldn't stop the tender smile that spread across his face as he watched her. She hadn't even taken off her shoes...

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Draco unlaced her left tennis shoe, gently drawing it off, before moving to the right, untying it and doing the same. Quietly, he placed them on the floor, and then shifted back to remove her knee socks. Slowly, silently, he pushed the left one down, trying carefully not to wake her.

Hermione jerked awake with a cry, her body curling up defensively.

He drew his hands up. "It's just me," he said, his voice low.

"Malfoy…" Hermione brought a hand to her chest, taking a deep breath. "You scared me." And then her gaze turned curious. "What... were you doing?"

Draco gestured vaguely to her legs, where one sock was off and one was on. "You, uh, fell asleep with your shoes on," he explained, scratching his neck.

Hermione looked down at herself. Her brows furrowed... and then they went up, a wave of warmth running through her. He had been taking her shoes and socks off for her, she realized. The action was so… she couldn't think of the word. Soft. Affectionate. Intimate.

She was grateful for the lack of light because she couldn't stop the charmed smile from spreading across her face. "Oh." It was all she could think to say.

Draco stood. "Here," he said, needing to distract them both from the ridiculous display of tenderness. "I told you I'd bring you food." He crossed the room and picked up the plate. "It's probably still warm."

Hermione peeled off her other sock, threw it on the ground before accepting the food. "Thanks," she said quietly.

Draco nodded once and then backed away. She pointed her wand at the food, heating it with a single word. His eyes stayed on her, watching as she lifted the fork to her mouth. She paused, her eyes warily meeting his. "I _am _going to eat it, you know," she assured him quietly. "You don't have to supervise me. I don't need a babysitter."

Draco leaned back against the wall, his hands in his pockets. "Your little friends seem to think you do," he told her. "They were practically in a panic when you didn't come down for dinner."

Hermione sighed, pushing the pasta around on her plate. "They're trying to protect me," she said after a moment. "They think if they're always around, I won't…" She trailed off, shook her head, unable to say the words. "They don't want things to go back to how they were."

"I don't blame them."

The words were quiet, low. They had Hermione glancing up, but only for a second. There was silence. "You know," she whispered after a while, "I never thought that you'd be the one to find me… that night." She swallowed, her brown eyes staring at the noodles that wrapped around the pointed prongs of her fork. "I imagine it was awkward for you... having to rush me to the infirmary and all that."

Draco was still as a statue, but his eyes were alert as they watched her. The haunting memory of her broken body in his arms, her warm blood against his skin, on his hands, flashed through him. "I wouldn't say awkward is the word."

More silence. Slowly, Hermione twirled the fork, watching as thin strips of pasta wrapped around silver. "You must think I'm so ungrateful," she mused with a humorless smile. "I mean… I never even thanked you."

Draco's jaw tightened. "I never expected you to."

Another pause. "I never… apologized, either."

His gaze was dark. "Apologized for what?"

She twisted the fork in the opposite direction, staring as the noodles slowly unraveled. "For putting you in that situation," she explained, her voice almost inaudible. "For forcing you to save me... someone you hate."

Draco pushed himself off the wall, taking slow, purposeful steps towards her. He lowered himself onto the bed, and, with his eyes on hers, removed the plate from her lap. Gently, he reached up, tucked one wild ringlet behind her ear. "There's always more," he told her seriously. "I can't hate you for that."

He took her hands in both of his, raised them to his mouth; she felt his lips brush lightly against the right one, and then the left. Tears pressed at the back of her eyes, tender and unbelieving, warm and hopeful. She held them at bay.

"Eat something," he commanded quietly after a moment, releasing one hand to pick the plate back up from where it rested on the little table. She nodded. His mission accomplished, Draco began to stand, but stopped when he felt her hand tighten around his. He brought his eyes back to hers, a question there.

"Will you stay?" she whispered.

Draco looked down at where her hand held firmly to his. There was a pause, long and hesitant. "Yeah," he said finally. "I'll stay."

He sat beside her on the bed, their shoulders touching as she ate some of the pasta he had brought for her. And when she was done, they pulled the covers up and climbed beneath them, lying close to one another, neither of them bothering to change out of their day clothes. They fell asleep that way, their bodies wrapped together, the gentle whisper of their breathing the only sound against the silence.

* * *

The days that followed came and went at lightning speed, the nights falling just as quickly. The new sleeping arrangement had somehow become a habit, one that Draco couldn't break himself of even if he'd tried. They slept through the hours of darkness side-by-side, lying close together beneath Hermione's covers, calm and comfortable.

Neither of them asked the other for anything. There was so much to say yet neither of them spoke. There were so many questions, but both let them go unasked, unanswered. They were content to just hold each other, to just let things rest, silent and serene.

Still, Draco couldn't ignore his growing anxiety. The week was drawing to a close, bringing his meeting with Lucius nearer and nearer. His time with Hermione was coming to a sudden end, and the closer that end came, the more restless he felt.

The morning finally arrived. Draco was awake before the sunrise. He hadn't really slept. Careful not to wake Hermione, he extracted her arm from around his abdomen. As he climbed out from underneath the covers he felt the air seize him in an ice-cold grip. He looked down at the girl still fast asleep in the bed, longing to move back beside her where he knew for certain he would be warm. It was hard as hell to resist, but duty propelled him forward, towards the door, towards the future… and away from Hermione Granger.

Her voice reached him just as he reached the door. "Where are you going?"

He turned. "I have business." His voice was unemotional, almost cold.

Hermione looked into his eyes, silver in the moonlight. "Business," she repeated. "That sounds ominous."

He looked away, her searching gaze cutting him like a knife. A brief silence fell between them, and Draco longed to fill it with comforting words, longed to reassure her, and himself, that things would be okay.

But how could he, when he knew it wasn't true?

"I'll be back," he told her instead.

It didn't comfort her. "When?"

Draco's gaze moved to the window, where moonlight was shining in. "I don't know. Today. Tonight, at the latest."

Hermione swallowed, not sure of what to say or what to think. A kind of cold awareness had settled in, one that made her heart hurt. Had she really believed that they were done with secrets? "There's always more, isn't there?" she whispered sadly.

Draco's jaw clenched. With one dark, silent look, he was gone.

Hermione watched him go, wondering what more there was...

* * *

"_Draco!_" a voice boomed the minute he arrived. "As usual, you're late. I was expecting you at dawn."

He turned. Lucius was on the grand staircase, moving down the marble steps as if he were some sort of king. His face held all the condescension in the world, and, as always, it was all directed at his son.

Draco put on a mocking smile, letting attitude cover his unease. "Forgot to set my alarm clock, I guess."

Lucius reached the bottom of the stairwell, arms crossed imperially. "Enough with your insolence," he commanded with a scowl. "I distinctively remember telling you that it would no longer be tolerated."

"And I distinctively remember not caring," Draco replied.

His father's lip curled in apparent disgust. "We've been far too lenient with you, boy," he said. "But believe me, you'll learn that there's a price for disobedience." He turned on his heel, his expensive robes swirling around his legs. "Come with me."

Draco fell in step with the older man, following silently as he led him down a darkened corridor. The passageway was straight but long, taking minutes to get to the end of. They finally did, stopping in front of a familiar door. Reaching into the folds of his robes, he produced a large ring of more than a dozen silver keys. His eyes narrowed, he took the center-most one into his hand and inserted it into the antique keyhole. There was a click, and with a careful push, the heavy door was open.

Draco had stood in front of this door many times before, but only once had he ever ventured beyond the threshold. It had been long ago, when he had still possessed some naivety, some light. Back then, the looming darkness had still been confusing. Little Draco had not yet been able to understand why his parents wouldn't play with him, why they never hugged or fussed over him. He'd been so eager, so hopeful, following them around, desperate for a good-morning kiss, or a bedtime story, for anything in between. Instead, they gave him the cold shoulder, some harsh words, and a quick sendoff—back to the house-elves they'd appointed as sorry substitutes for themselves.

Lucius passed through the entrance, leading Draco into the large study. Bookshelves and cabinets covered the farthest wall, housing endless files and books of all sorts. Two windows that spread from ceiling to floor sat on the wall next to that, revealing the gentle pinks of sunrise. A majestic desk sat in between them, its surface bare, a gold and velvet throne behind it. At the other wall was a fireplace, wide and tall, one imposing wingback chair positioned before it.

Draco's grey eyes stared at the hearth, memory flashing in front of his eyes.

It had been late at night the last time he'd been inside the study, far past his usual bedtime. The sun had already sunk deep into the sea, and a crescent moon had been high above the manor, sending muted rays of light through the gothic windows. Draco had been on one of his midnight adventures, occupying himself, as he'd always had to do, exploring the endless rooms and passageways of his home in search of imaginary treasure.

The distant sound of voices had drawn him to the study. Curious, he'd crept down the corridor to the dimly lit room. The heavy door had been left open just a bit, leaving just enough space for one little grey eye to peek through. His father had been inside, standing before the fireplace, leaning in, as if listening to the flames.

And then he'd heard it, a quiet, scratchy, strangely-pitched voice coming from inside the fire, the sound so depleted that Draco had hardly been able to make out what it was saying.

"Must summon the First Circle… the time has come…" The voice had been weak and commanding all at once. The sound of it had had him wanting to back away, but for some reason compelled him closer, until he'd found a way to silently squeeze through the entrance and creep unnoticed into the room.

"The Circle is divided, my lord. Many are still on the run."

"They will come… when they are called," the voice assured Lucius. "They will come... or they will face the consequences."

"But you are weak," Draco heard his father reason. "You must preserve your strength."

"I must… preserve the confederacy or my strength… will mean nothing. Send out the summons, Lucius," the voice commanded.

Lucius turned, wand in hand—but just as he was about to say the spell, he caught sight of his son. "What are you doing in here?" his cold voice rang out. He came lunging at Draco, grabbing the boy by his collar. "Get out! Now!"

"Lucius." The voice stopped him immediately, held him still.

"I'm sorry, my lord. My son was just leaving." Draco flinched at the ice in his father's tone.

"No… Bring him closer…"

Lucius hesitated for the slightest of moments. And then he obeyed, dragging Draco before the fire. Inside of the flames was a face, one that had the young boy swallowing uncertainly. He knew vaguely he should be afraid, but the emotion didn't reach him. Instead, he was only curious.

"How old are you, boy?" the face asked in that chilling voice.

"Five," he answered.

"Shouldn't you… be in bed?" the face asked him. "Aren't all the other boys of five… asleep at this hour?"

Draco shrugged one tiny shoulder. "I'm not like the other boys," he told the flames with childlike candor. "I don't do the things I should."

"_That's enough_, Draco," Lucius reprimanded.

But the face chuckled, the sound hoarse. "Leave him be… It is astuteness, not insolence—for now, at least." The laughter turned to coughing. There was a pause. The flame-eyes stared deep into Draco's soul. "You're right, Draco," he told him quietly. "You're _not _like the other boys."

The words were heavy, much heavier than Draco could have ever meant them with his innocent frankness. But he had felt the weight, had somehow understood it. And even at such a tender age, he had somehow known it was burden he'd have to carry for the rest of his life.

_You're not like the other boys…_

"Draco," Lucius snapped, bringing him back to the present. "Are you paying attention?"

Draco looked away from the hearth. "Not really," he admitted. "Were you saying something?"

Lucius' jaw clenched. "As a matter of fact, I was," he bit out. "And it was important."

Draco smiled pleasantly. "Then, by all means, continue. Drone on about the invitations and seating charts, and what not…"

Lucius sent his son a baleful look. "Invitations and seating charts are woman's work," he informed him. "They are your mother's forte." He moved to his desk, pulling out the high-backed chair and seating himself in it, his spine long and completely straight. He folded is hands slowly, lacing his hard fingers together. "I didn't bring you here to talk about decorations and guest lists," he said with majestic censure. "I brought you here to make sure you understood that for once this is about more than that."

"You mean it isn't just another pretentious soiree?" Draco asked innocently. "Could have fooled me."

"Don't joke, Draco," Lucius snapped. "Not about this." His hands stayed together on the dark wood surface of the desk, but they seemed to tense, to grip together painfully with straining patience. "A Joining isn't just a celebration. It isn't a party. It's a _commitment_, one that will dictate what you do and who you are for the _rest_ of your _life_—_your_ Joining, even more so than others," he added seriously. His dark, discerning silver eyes narrowed. "I need you to understand the gravity of this. To be accepted into the First Circle is a very rare honor, Draco."

"I know," Draco said with a bitter smile. He stepped forward, towards one large window, looking out at the newly risen sun. "It's just as you always dreamed."

"I wouldn't treat it lightly. Because you'll find it's _much _more than that." Draco frowned at the words, but didn't turn. "Don't you want to know the rest?" Lucius asked his son. Draco didn't answer, causing his father's voice to turn harsh. "Don't you?"

"The suspense is killing me," Draco said dully.

Lucius ignored the tone. He considered his son disapprovingly for a moment. "I know you always thought that I would be your Marker. It was the natural conclusion." There was a pause. "However, other arrangements have been made."

"Other arrangements?"

"Yes." Lucius paused again, this time longer. "The Dark Lord, himself, has asked to be the one to Mark you."

Draco's eyes narrowed. A man's Marker was considered his sire, his blood. The Dark Mark connected the two together in a very unique and personal way, and that connection was binding, eternal. Inductees were almost always Marked by a father, a brother, an uncle—passing the legacy from one generation to the next, baptizing the child into this new world of darkness. If you Marked a man, you were responsible for him: you guided him; you showed him how to live the life; you took credit when he proved himself worthy; and you were partly to blame if he shamed the Mark you branded into him.

The Dark Lord wouldn't take that time, that responsibility with just anyone. That integral, paternal bond... there was only _one _person he would consent to share it with: _his successor_. He would never Mark a man unless it was…

"The Heir," he finished out loud, his voice dull.

He swallowed, a harsh laugh escaping him. The title of Slytherin Prince had suddenly taken on a darker, realer meaning. And for some reason, he wasn't surprised. Maybe a part of him had always known, had always felt the severity of his future. Maybe he had figured it all out that night so many years ago, when the Dark Lord had smiled at him through the flames and said the words that had sealed his fate forever.

_You're right, Draco… You're not like the other boys…_

Draco's jaw clenched tight.

_There's always more…_

He turned, his eyes moving from the light morning sky to the shadows within the study. "How long have you known?"

"Since you were a boy," Lucius admitted quietly. "After Potter survived the Death Curse, the Master was all but destroyed." He angled his chin towards his shoulder so he could look at his son. "I thought he was dead. Everyone did. But circumstances eventually led a few of us to Albania, to the forests, where we found him alive—but barely." He turned his head back, staring ahead. "It took some time," he went on, "but we found a way to return him to a human body. In it, he began to have premonitions of his rise back to power. He saw visions of a war—of Potter and his little friends in chains." He nodded, almost to himself. "And he saw _you_ leading his army against them." He swallowed. His voice wasn't stern, wasn't proud. It was grim. "It was then that he decided it was you, and no one else, that he wanted to carry on his legacy."

A war? Chains? Draco had known there was a plot, had known that the disappearing Aurors were the beginning of the end. But hearing these details, so small, but so definite, was like having a tiny, hazy window into Voldemort's mind.

He kept a cool façade, but deep inside he was anything but calm. The images were vivid, powerful, frightening. Would Hermione fight this battle? Would she be the one dragged away in chains? Would they torture her—would she die a painful death?

Would it be his fault? Would he be the one to kill her?

Unable to handle the imagery, Draco looked back at the window. "I have school," he informed his father curtly. "So if that's all you have to tell me…"

Lucius' gaze narrowed, examining Draco. "There is still the small matter of your Task to go over," he said, sitting back further against the back of his chair, crossing his arms.

"My Task," Draco repeated dully.

"You can't be accepted into the Circle without performing an act of loyalty, Draco. The Dark Lord allows no one in without the assurance that he or she can be trusted. And, sadly, the Malfoys are not exempt from that rule—though the Master has never had any reason to doubt _our_ dedication."

Draco's jaw tightened. Voldemort hadn't had any reason to doubt _Lucius_ Malfoy. He had kept the solemn vows he'd made so many years ago at his own much smaller, much more furtive ceremony; had been nothing but dutiful and deferent—the steadfast servant, the trusted friend. But _Draco_ Malfoy was a completely different story. He didn't share his father's devotion. He had other loyalties now, and they would always come first. _Hermione _would come first.

"You needn't worry about the Task," his father continued, brushing a piece of lint from the shoulder of his robes. "It's surprisingly simple, actually."

"Murder is never simple, father," he said, his voice low and dead serious.

"No, it isn't," Lucius agreed sternly. "So you should be especially grateful that _murder_ isn't your Task." He tilted his head. "Or, at least, it doesn't have to be." He leaned down, opening a drawer of the giant desk. He reached in, producing a small glass vial. "All you have to do is fill this," he said, pushing it forward on the rich wood surface.

Draco came forward, took the empty container into his hand. The glass was as cold as an ice cube in his hand. "With what?" he asked finally.

Lucius met his son's silver eyes. They were dark, like his. "With blood," he said.

"Whose?" Draco asked warily.

There was cold silence, and then the dreaded words, "Hermione Granger's."

The name resonated against the walls of Draco's mind, echoed within the deep well of his heart—a heart that was suddenly cold and still, frozen by the sound _Hermione Granger_... _Hermione Granger_... The Dark Lord wanted the blood of _Hermione Granger_...

"Do you think you can manage that?" Lucius was asking mildly.

Draco didn't answer, didn't nod in confirmation, didn't deny. "What's it for?" he asked instead, masking his face, making his voice emotionless.

Lucius shook his head. "I don't know," he told his son honestly. "The Dark Lord only told me that it isn't as trivial as it may seem. Only time will reveal rest."

Draco looked at the vial in his hand, suddenly wishing he had never been born... wishing the Task _had _been murder—a cocky Auror, or a government man. He would have killed anyone, done _anything_... anything to keep her name out of it. Anything to keep her safe.

"How long do I have?" he asked quietly.

"Until the ceremony. You must present the filled vial to the Dark Lord in exchange for the Mark."

Draco forced himself to nod. "Are we done here?" he asked after another moment.

His father nodded once, the movement sharp. "We are." Without another word, Draco began to cross the room. "And Draco?" He stopped, waited. "Believe me when I say the time for games is over."

Draco's hand tightened around the glass. He knew his father was wrong. What was this but a more dangerous game?

* * *

Hermione sat with Harry and Ron in her common room, trying desperately to maintain focus. Law Enforcement officials were disappearing right and left, it seemed. Something big was coming, something colossal. She could sense it. They all could.

But for some reason, all she could think about was Draco. He was off in some unknown place, brought there by some unknown obligation. _Business_. The word had never been so dark, so cryptic as when he had spoken it.

"Come on, Mione. Focus, will you? We need to figure this out," Ron said without looking up from the newspaper he was studying.

Hermione glanced from one friend to the other. Harry held his head in both hands, two open books sprawled out on the coffee table before him. "Sorry," she said quietly. She took up the week-old paper and tried to read it. It was useless; her thoughts were completely swayed, focused totally on the blond-haired, silver-eyed man who had been mysteriously absent all day. She tried to clear her mind of him, reading and rereading the same sentence again and again. It was impossible.

"This is pointless," she said at last. "We've been over all of this a thousand times. I feel like my head is about to cave in."

"Well, what do you suggest we do? We don't have a lot to go off of here!" Ron shot back.

"Exactly. We don't have enough information," she argued tiredly. "Going over this again and again isn't going to give us what we need." _And I can't think, not about this, not while _he_ is_ _on my mind._

"We can't _not _try, and for right now this is the best we can do."

Hermione didn't want to argue. She sighed, bringing an unsteady hand to rub her temple.

"If I had known there was going to be a party, I would have come a lot sooner," Draco's haughty voice cut through the silence. Hermione looked up, her weary eyes meeting his gaze.

"You weren't invited, ferret," Ron said with a sarcastic smile.

"I know," Draco replied with a smirk. "I'm a crasher."

Harry stood, beginning to gather the papers. "We'll clean up," he put in before a war of words could begin.

"But Harry—"

"Hermione is tired, Ron," Harry cut in. "So am I. We'll finish this tomorrow… in our own common room," he added, his dull gaze briefly meeting a sardonic Malfoy's eyes. He walked over to Hermione, kissed her forehead, before heading past Draco and disappearing from the room.

Reluctantly, Ron followed, doing the same. "Sorry if I was mean for a minute," he whispered with a rueful smile.

"It's okay," she said, smiling softly. "We'll figure things out eventually." She watched silently as, like Harry, he walked by Malfoy, sending him a threatening glare as he headed out of the main entrance.

Draco waited until the portrait was closed to step further into the room. One eyebrow slowly rose as he took in the open books and newspaper clippings that the men had left behind. "What was all that about," he asked, nodding to the mess.

Hermione leaned her head against the sofa's armrest. "Trying to save the world," she told him, smiling a little.

Draco was tense, but he forced the familiar dry smile. "I guess I shouldn't have crashed the party, then," he said back lightly.

Her laugh was a breathless song, but it did nothing to comfort him. He was too aware of the empty vial in his pocket.

There would be no saving the world this time. It was doomed, all of it—all of _them_.

Including her.

Including him.


	8. An Inconvenient Truth: Part I

_Saving You Summary—DMHG. Hermione Granger has a secret, one that's literally killing her. Who will come to her rescue? What if the only one who can is Draco Malfoy? Rated M for sexual content (including rape), suicide ideation, and violence._

_Disclaimer—Most of the characters and a lot of the setting belong to J.K. Rowling. The rest is mine._

A/N: Last updated Feb. 2, 2010.

* * *

**:::An Inconvenient Truth: Part I:::**

Beyond the bubble of Hermione's bedroom, they were strangers. The sun would rise. Daylight would shine over the loch, over the balcony, through the glass. Silently, dutifully, they would come out of each other's arms, would leave each other for the day. Their lives resumed seemingly as usual, he staying with his group, she staying with hers, neither crossing the proverbial line in the sand. From late morning to cool evening they kept away from one another, only meeting gazes as they passed each other in the hallways or from across the crowded classrooms. The glances they allowed themselves were brief, so fleeting that no one could have noticed. No one could have known that things had changed, no one but them...

But once the sun lowered, so did the walls that protected their secret from the scrutinizing light of day. The silent truth was safe in the night. They could hide together, invisible, cloaked in moonlight and shadow and the glow of distant stars. No prying eyes, no arched brows, no disapproving frowns could come between them. Those long-ago yesterdays when they had hated one another, those uncertain tomorrows that threatened to be recurrences of the past... they didn't matter here, in this room, in this bed. There _were _no yesterdays or tomorrows. The rules and expectations meant nothing now; there were no laws in this place they had created, this haven where time stood still, where the world outside froze and was none the wiser.

Pink sunrise was swirling in the sky. Hermione watched the glass wall with a tired smile as morning light swathed the stars. Draco's strong arm was around her abdomen, trapping her firmly against him, the front of his body curving around the back of hers. She could feel his breath against her hair, slow and even.

He was awake, she knew, had been awake all night. She had felt his eyes watching her through the darkness, had felt how every once in a while he would tighten his grip around her, as if daring the rising sun to so much as try to take her away.

She brought her hand up to cover his. "You didn't sleep," she whispered after a while. "Is something wrong?"

There was a pause. "No," he said against her hair.

She turned in his arms. Their faces were close, so close that their breaths mingled. "Would you tell me if there was?" she countered softly.

He didn't answer, just looked at her with those penetrating eyes.

After a while, he let his gaze lower, his eyes scanning down to look briefly at her mouth before settling thoughtfully on the diamond at her chest. Its facets gleamed with sunrise, soft crimson and pale orange, and the silver snake's eyes were fire-bright.

He fingered the stone, watching as it slowly rose and fell with her breath.

"It still feels heavy," she told him quietly. "Like iron instead of silver." She brought her hand up, letting it touch his as it delicately touched the diamond. "Like I'm chained..."

Chained to _you_. She didn't say it.

Instead, she smiled, tired and tender. "But... I don't think I could part with it now," she admitted, her voice soft.

The words had his intense eyes coming back up to meet hers. "That's not what you said before," he reminded her stonily. "You wanted me to take it back."

"I wanted to uncomplicate things," she corrected softly. She took his hand, held it away from the necklace, away from her skin, where his touch couldn't burn her. Her fingers laced with his harder ones, held. "I was so used to life being a certain way," she explained sadly. She shook her head, almost as if she still didn't understand. "All of a sudden, everything was different. _I_ was different."

_We _were different. Again, she didn't say it.

She shifted onto her back, her wistful brown eyes staring up at the ceiling. "I didn't know who I was looking at in the mirror," she said instead.

Draco said nothing, only watched her with those star-silver eyes. His arm wrapped around her abdomen again, pulling her fragile form into his built one. His fingers clutched the cotton material of her dark red t-shirt, but didn't dare to draw it up, didn't dare to touch her skin to skin.

There was silence.

After a while, she swallowed. "You haven't kissed me since that day," she stated softly—so softly that her voice was barely audible against the soundless sunrise.

Frowning, Draco lifted off of his shoulder and looked down into her eyes. He brought a deliberate hand up, stroked her delicate cheekbone, across her temple, over her hair. And then slowly he leaned down, his steel eyes still open, watching her eyelids fall as he carefully pressed his mouth against hers. He drew back an inch. "You know that's not true."

Her eyelids stayed closed. Her tongue moistened her dry lips. She could taste the hint of his.

But it wasn't enough.

Her eyes slowly opened, softened, considered his. "I mean... really kissed me," she countered in a hesitant whisper. There was a long, heavy pause. "Why?" she dared to ask.

Draco's jaw visibly tightened at the quiet question, baited—baited by the memory of her mouth melding with his, by the unyielding desire he had to repeat the offense. His whole body stilled, tensed, except for his eyes, where the pale grey darkened to smoke and silver.

He didn't answer, not right away. "Because if I kissed you like that again I wouldn't be able to stop," he told her finally. His intense gaze slowly fell to her mouth, brightened, burned. Slowly, he traced the rough pad of one thumb across her lips. "I wouldn't be able to leave it at just a kiss."

The heavy words had Hermione's heart beating faster, had her gaze going tender with unexpressed emotion. The strong fingers against her lips had her own fingers lifting, had her hand raising, resting a palm against his cheek… had her craning her neck slowly, softly bringing her mouth up to his.

This time, Draco let his eyes fall closed, the feel of her closed lips against his gritting his teeth. How could a kiss be so chaste and yet so deep? How could it be so light... and yet so profound?

She slowly drew back and turned in his arms again, shifting to once again face the rose-colored sky. Draco pulled her back against him, his arms hugging her body tightly, his face resting a breath away from the spring-scented curls that wisped over her shoulders and onto the pillow between them.

They stayed like that, watching the changing sky through the glass wall.

"The sun is almost up," he observed dutifully after a while. "I should go."

Hermione covered his hand with hers, halting him before he could move away. "Not yet," she whispered. "We still have time."

But it was only a few minutes. Once the reds were gone and the sky was perfect blue, he had to force himself out of her arms, out of her room and back to his own, already feeling the pangs of withdrawal that he knew he'd have to bear until the end of the day. They would only subside again under the blanket of night... under the blankets of her bed, in the circle of her arms.

* * *

He went on with his day, with his life, pretending that he wasn't thinking about her. He took notes during lecture, conversed with his friends in the corridors between classes, nodded amusedly when an attractive girl smiled his way. He wore his signature smirk when necessary, kept the sarcasm and superiority steady in his gaze. The front of his mind was dedicated to the tasks at hand: his schoolwork, his housemates—playing prince. But Hermione Granger lingered in the back: her dark eyes, her soft voice... the addictive feel of her slender form in his embrace.

"Are you listening to me, Draco?"

Pansy's commanding tone and the feel of her fingers tightening around his brought him back to the present.

"Not exactly," he admitted unapologetically, looking straight ahead as they stepped out onto the stone path of the courtyard. His gaze found Hermione immediately, naturally, though how he'd known she'd be there was inexplicable even to him. It was as if some magnetic force of nature was drawing him to her, like a bee to a daisy or a moth to a flame.

She sat on a stone bench on the opposite side of the square, her soft eyes intent on a thick hardcover book in her lap. Her school robe was off and covering her lower half like a blanket, and she had pulled the grey sleeves of her school sweater up over her hands to shield them from the autumn cold. Potter was beside her, guarding her, laughing at some game the Weasleys and their little Gryffindor friends were playing on the grass. His right shoulder stayed pressed against Hermione's left, even though there was plenty of room on the seat.

Draco's senses wanted to react. They urged him to step forward, to go to her, his addiction impatient for its next fix. But he resisted, expertly masking his true desires, only letting himself look for a second before nonchalantly turning away from the woman ahead and back to the one at his side. "You were saying something about the Dungeon...?" he recalled with one brow raised.

"I was saying you hadn't been down there in a while," she told him pointedly. "I was saying that it might be wise to start making regular appearances again—from a political standpoint."

"I'm not a politician," he informed her shortly.

"No," she agreed easily, "you're a prince." She arched one long, defined eyebrow. "Royal subjects tend not to take too kindly to monarchs who ignore them, Draco. They all want to know what's happened to you." She sighed exasperatedly when he only sent her a sardonic look. "Speak reason to him, Blaise," she commanded the other man.

"But he doesn't listen to reason," Blaise reminded her amusedly from off to the side. His dark gaze went to Draco, looked him over. "Not even when his future may depend upon it," he added.

Draco crossed his arms, looking blandly at the dark-skinned man. "Another case of complementing interests?" he asked his friend.

"It's the same case, Malfoy," Blaise assured him mildly. He held his hands up in innocence as the grey-eyed man's gaze narrowed. "You have to admit she has a point," he defended with a smile. "You're not the kind of man whose absence goes unnoticed. If keep disappearing, people will start to wonder where exactly you're disappearing _to_. And it's only a matter of time before someone gets curious enough to figure it out." The warning was wry, but beneath the guise of humor the words were dark. "I think we can both agree that now isn't the most ideal time for people to be poking around in your affairs," he stated quietly.

The double meaning of the word _affairs_ wasn't lost on Draco, and he was instantly tensing at the hidden allusion to Hermione.

"I can think of a few things you would rather remain a secret," Blaise went on. His gaze deliberately drifted to the girl across the courtyard. "Can't you?"

"_I_ certainly can," Pansy put in when there was silence, referring to Draco's upcoming Joining Ceremony—thinking, of course, that they were referring to the same. She never would have guessed that Draco Malfoy had a dirtier secret—never would have guessed that it was a filthy mudblood named Hermione Granger.

Draco only smiled crisply. "Be that as it may, I have some things I need to take care of."

Blaise didn't miss a beat. "I know," he replied. "I heard." He considered the other man with skeptical black eyes. "But the vial is small, Malfoy—tiny even. Filling it shouldn't be too difficult or take too long." He tilted his head, raised a brow. "Should it?" he urged when his friend said nothing.

Draco's only answer was the stare of stone eyes.

Blaise smiled knowingly. "That's what I thought. See you tonight?" he asked, beginning to back away.

Draco watched him for a moment, his gaze dark, resentful. "Yeah," he conceded finally. "See you."

His best friend nodded in satisfaction, turned, and was gone.

Pansy's dark blue eyes were alert as she watched their friend disappear. "What was that about?" she asked the man beside her.

"Nothing," he said dully.

"Nothing. Of course." She rolled her eyes and put on that precious petulant pout. "It isn't fair," she complained. "You tell Blaise everything. You never tell me anything."

Draco leaned back against one large stone column, making room for some younger students who wanted to get by. "Whatever Blaise hears he doesn't hear from me," he assured her dryly. "He has other means of getting his information—and a particular habit of making my private business _his _private business." He sent her a sarcastic smile. "The two of you are very alike in that way."

Pansy shook her head. "But you _listen_ to him," she went on resentfully. "Five minutes ago you were set on not coming down to the Dungeon. I coax and cajole and get nothing but stone. _He_ says a single sentence and somehow magically changes your mind..." She brushed her bangs out of her eyes with her emerald-painted fingernails. "What is it you need to take care of?" she asked casually after another moment. Her gaze went to his, sharpened. "Another woman?" she pressed when he said nothing. "Business?" Draco didn't respond, didn't so much as meet her gaze. "What did he mean, a tiny vial?"

"Stay out of it, Pansy," Draco commanded through gritted teeth.

Pansy shook her head with a smile. "Don't you ever get tired of telling me that?"

"Don't you?" he returned dangerously.

"Yes." She playfully batted her mascara-coated lashes. "But if I didn't at least _try_ to keep you close, you'd go off on a drunken binge, or gamble your family's fortune away, or run off with one of your harlots the first chance you got."

Draco smiled blandly. "Oh, Pansy, you know me so well."

"It's my job to know you," she replied. She sent him a look of amused vexation. "You certainly don't make it a delight," she added sweetly.

"Just be grateful I make it easy," he said back with caustic smile. "Imagine how much worse it would be if my sordid ways still shocked you."

Pansy's lips stayed curved, but the smile vanished from her dark eyes. "Yes, I suppose that's something," she told him humorlessly. "Though I don't think I could ever be _grateful_ for your disgusting tendency to philander in front of my face."

Draco stilled. "I'm a free man, Pansy," he reminded her. "I can do whatever I please, withwhomever I please."

"You can and you do," she agreed tightly. "But no matter what you tell them, Draco, every one of those girls is just the other woman. And no matter what you tell _yourself_, you are _not _a free man." Her dark blue eyes were bright—and certain. "Your whores know it. I know it. And, more importantly, _you _know it."

Draco wouldn't let himself be baited. Instead, he gazed at her with cold nonchalance. "If you're calling yourself a ball and chain, I'm afraid I can't disagree," he said coolly. "Still, for all that, I think we both know you've never managed to lock me down. We wouldn't be talking about _whores_ if you had." He came away from the wall and closer to her. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet. "I'm not as shackled to you as you try to tell yourself, Pansy," he told her, his eyes piercing into hers, his voice like ice. "I'm not _yours_."

Instead of backing away, she took another step forward. Instead of wavering or breaking at the words, she smiled. "Keep swimming against the current, Draco. I don't mind," she whispered affectionately. "Sooner or later, you're going to wear out. And then you'll have to accept the natural course of things." She reached a hand up, gently pushed a blond streak of hair away from his eyes. "You'll have to go with it or you'll drown."

Draco's jaw was clenched tight. His pale grey eyes were intense. But he didn't so much as flinch as Pansy's warm palm smoothed over his cheek. "My mother wrote to inform me that we've received an invitation to a certain special ceremony on November 1st," she went on. "So I'm thinking it will be sooner rather than later." There was a pause. "What do _you _think?" she asked him, arching a confident brow.

Draco took her hand and brought it away from his face, his grip so tight that it had to hurt. "I think you're counting very much on the idea that the Dark Mark will do what you couldn't," he stated icily. "But that's all it is, Pansy—an _idea_." She smiled through the pain of her fingers being crushed in his. "I am no one's subordinate," he told her quietly, dangerously. "Marked or not—_married_ or not—I will not be told what I can and can't do." He slowly released his hold of her hand. "Not by anyone, but certainly never by you."

Pansy only laughed under her breath, the sound husky and low. "You're not as free from me as you try to tell yourself, Draco," she said back with sweet satisfaction. "We wouldn't be talking about _marriage_ if you were." She slowly rose to her tiptoes until their breaths clashed and their gazes were eye to eye. "As for the rest, well, we'll just have to see about that, won't we?" she whispered with a secret smile. And then she closed the space between them and pressed her wide painted lips to his.

He didn't move, didn't so much as blink an eye. It was more than a kiss, he knew. It was a message, a promise. _You can't run from this forever. I won't let you..._

She drew back, victory in her gaze. "I'd love to stay and continue this little chat," she stated flippantly, "but I've got a meeting with Snape and Flitwick. Apparently _someone_ has been slipping mercury into Greta Berg's drinking water." Her voice was laced with mock sympathy—and mock innocence. "The poor thing's teeth and hair were beginning to fall out! And for some odd reason _my_ name came up on the list of possible suspects." She looked at him mildly. "Ridiculous, isn't it?" she asked with a playful pout—and a dangerous glint in her navy-blue eyes.

Draco said nothing, causing Pansy's knowing smirk to grow. "I'll see you tonight, darling," she purred, and with another quick peck, she was heading down the stone path across the courtyard.

Draco watched her go with hard eyes, waiting until she had disappeared from sight completely to turn his gaze back to Hermione. She was still bent over her book, her curls blowing around her in the soft autumn breeze.

He only allowed himself to watch her for a moment. And then he, too, was turning and walking away.

* * *

To keep her mind occupied, Hermione delved into study. Every spare moment of her day was spent in the pages of one book or another, in drying inkwells and endless feet of parchment, distracting her from her troubling thoughts. As usual, her subconscious wasn't making it easy. The rebellion, however, had changed with everything else. It was no longer thoughts of the past that haunted her, but thoughts of today, of _tonight_, of what waited for her there under the cloak of purple sky...

Thoughts of the shelter—and the danger—of Draco Malfoy's embrace.

The air outside was cooling off. The time for sweaters and scarves was fast approaching, and it seemed now like summer was finally gone for good. Hermione had her school robe over her lap to shield her legs from the cool autumn wind, but she could still feel it through the material, like a premonition of winter.

Harry was beside her; she could feel his shoulder brushing hers, could hear his affectionate laughter as he watched their friends play some version of Marco Polo nearby. Ginny had tried to persuade her to put the book down and join in, but the two overprotective men had immediately stepped in to veto the idea. They were still carefully monitoring her, making sure she didn't do too much too fast—making sure she didn't do _anything_ that might compromise her recovery.

Hermione hadn't argued. She was much more comfortable here, on her bench, with her book, where she didn't have to try to pretend to be cheerful.

Seamus' frustrated voice calling 'Marco' and the collective 'Polo' that always followed was like background music playing over the storyline on the pages. The giggles and shouts were like happy echoes. She couldn't retreat, not completely, not when those familiar voices reached into her subconscious from nearby. She couldn't get too lost inside of the book, inside of herself, not when her friends were around her, not with the sound of their laughter keeping her grounded to the here and now. She was somewhere in between the reality of the courtyard and the relief she found within the pages of the memoir; they balanced each other out, keeping her at the shallow end of two conjoining oceans—keeping her from falling too far into their world, keeping her from sinking too far into her own. She could occupy herself here, distract herself from everyone's worries—from her own worries, which waited at the dark end of the water... at the dark end of the day, above the waves and the cliffs, over the balcony, and inside of her bed.

She glanced up as Seamus let out an aggravated sound. He was trolling the area, eyelids down, hands out in front of him like a zombie to keep himself from colliding with any solid objects that crossed his path. "Marco," he called for the twentieth time, and then paused, listening for the counterword. It came, and he lunged towards it, his arms wildly swiping the air, capturing nothing—missing Ginny by only half an inch. She skirted away with a silent smile, coming around the stone bench and huddling behind Harry and Hermione.

"Marco!"

"Polo," she replied meekly.

Harry looked over his shoulder with a raised brow. "This is a direct breach of Marco Polo regulation," he informed her matter-of-factly. "He's supposed to be able to hear you—and catch you without running over stone benches and innocent bystanders."

"It's only cheating if you get caught," she whispered, a twinkle in her azure eyes.

Harry's black brow raised higher. "Agreed," he said and then promptly turned back around. "But you know the rules, Gin," he said loudly. "You can't expect me to hide you over here."

A blind Seamus whipped around at the words.

"Oh, _thanks_, Harry," Ginny said sarcastically before flitting away as their Irish friend leapt towards them.

"Any time!" Harry called after her.

Hermione watched as the redheaded girl darted away from Seamus' swinging arms. She laughed softly with the group when he _finally_ managed to catch hold of something—the sleeve of Dean's charcoal-colored sweatshirt—relieving him from his chasing duties at last.

But her smile faded as her eyes found two familiar forms standing beyond the game. Across the courtyard, along the stone columns on the opposite end, Malfoy and Pansy stood close together, so close that their bodies were almost brushing.

Hermione's heart didn't sink, not exactly. It _sagged_, slumping inside her chest, slowing as it dully beat against her ribcage. She could see the way he was looking at the Slytherin Goddess—not bored, not sardonic, not indifferent or aloof. Not the way he looked at all the other girls. His eyes were bright, intense, _impatient_, as if he wanted something from her, something he couldn't get.

Or perhaps it was just _her_ he wanted. The tension in the air between them, the static that sizzled all around, that dangerous gleam in his dark sliver eyes... they all looked perilously like lust.

Hermione watched as Pansy's hand reached up to slowly stroke down Draco's cheek. She saw his jaw clench with some hidden emotion—the same way it did when _she_ touched him, or held him, or chastely pressed her lips to his.

She swallowed, tasting the metallic flavor of envy.

Draco and Pansy had never been a devoted couple—at least not in the usual way. Malfoy's eminence as a master lothario had always seen to that. He had never bothered to hide from her the fact that he was unfaithful. On the contrary, he had entertained his other women out in the open, in front of her face. Like with any true rake, discretion had been the lowest of priorities—and monogamy had never been a priority at all.

Even so, it was _Pansy_ who was forever beside him. It was Pansy that held his hand as they walked from place to place, Pansy on his arm at every school dance or picnic or party. It was Pansy who met him at the edge of the pitch after every match and outside the door after every class. It was Pansy who sat with him at breakfast, lunch, and dinner; Pansy who ate the vegetables he didn't finish off his plate.

It was Pansy who knew his likes and interests: his drink of choice, his favorite subject in school, which professional quidditch team he supported, the songs that got stuck in his head. She knew his pet peeves and what made him angry, had long ago discovered all his strengths and flaws and quirks.

And it _killed _Hermione. Because out of all the women who had occupied Malfoy in the night, _Pansy_ was the only one he brought out into the light of day. She was the only woman he'd _kept_, the only one he'd brought beyond a fling. And not even a lifetime of infidelities could undermine the significance of that.

She watched silently as Pansy lifted up to her toes, whispering something to Draco before bringing her curved lips to his. Hermione immediately averted her gaze. She turned back to the pages of Gaspard Shingleton's memoir, wanting to erase the display of intimacy from her mind, wanting to distract herself again, free herself again—from the pain of envy and uncertainty, from this growing need inside of her, from the emptiness that suddenly longed to be filled... by Draco Malfoy.

But it was too late. The ache in heart was as unavoidable as the kiss that had caused it—the kiss that could never be hers outside the confines of her bedroom or beyond the darkness of night.

A few moments passed. Out of the corner of her eye she could see the Slytherin Princess glide by her—unescorted by her royal counterpart. Hermione could feel Malfoy's severe eyes, following Pansy first, but then looking to her. She wanted to look up, wanted to meet his gaze, but didn't, _couldn't_, not when her heart was this heavy inside her chest. She couldn't let him see the hurt, couldn't let him know just how much she'd come to care. Not until she could be sure that he cared, too.

And she _wasn't_ sure. Not about anything. Not at all.

She waited until she was certain he was gone to look back up from the book in her lap. She stared down the pathway to the place where he had been, lost in the thoughts she'd been trying so hard to ignore.

"Hermione." Harry's voice entered her consciousness, but it didn't break the spell. "Hermione," he said again, louder this time.

"Hmn?"

"That Brandon chap is waving at you."

"What?" She awoke from her thoughts. Her eyes refocused, instantly finding Brandon. "Oh."

He was in the open corridor on the other side of the courtyard, somewhere beyond where she'd been absently gazing. He had a casual hand up in acknowledgement, his smile soft and wide as he considered her from afar.

"He keeps his distance, doesn't he?" Harry asked with a skeptical frown.

"Only when you or Ron are around," Hermione replied as she dutifully put on a smile, lifted a hand, and waved back.

"I don't know why," Harry told her nonchalantly, watching with narrowed eyes as the Ravenclaw boy turned and went on his way. "Neither of us has said a word to him since the quidditch match." Hermione sent him a dry look. "We've never warned him away from you," he insisted.

"Not with words," Hermione agreed with an amused smile. "Guard dogs don't typically have to use their voices to intimidate someone. It's more in the eyes... and the fangs." Harry smiled guiltily. "It's okay," she assured him before he could apologize. "I don't mind. He's a good friend but... I have bigger things to worry about."

Harry felt a wave of satisfaction—and relief—wash through him. "Like staying healthy," he supplied.

Hermione's gaze slowly returned to the end of the stone path. "Yeah," she said quietly. "Like staying healthy."

A moment passed. And then she forced herself to lighten. She turned back to Harry, considering him with smiling brown eyes. "So... do _you _have a date for the Halloween Dance?" she prompted impishly.

It was Harry's turn to look away. "No," he answered flatly.

She waited a moment for him to go on. But he didn't. "Well, are you going to ask anyone?" she pressed.

There was a long pause. "I haven't decided," he finally said.

Hermione's brows furrowed. Slowly, she followed his gaze to where Ginny was silently standing on the grass. "She's waiting for you to notice her, Harry," she told him after a while. "She's _been_ waiting."

Harry let out a humorless laugh. "Trust me, I notice her," he said, his emerald eyes on the younger girl, who was striking a pose beside Seamus and Neville while Ron snapped a photograph with his insufferable camera. "I notice her every day, every minute that she's around."

"Then tell her."

Harry shook his head. "You know it isn't as simple as all that, Mione. Not when you're as close as we are." He looked back to his best friend, his green eyes dark and somehow uncertain. "What if things don't work out?" he reasoned, quieter.

"What if they do?" she countered softly.

Harry smiled bitterly. "Nothing good lasts forever, Hermione. Not in my life." He turned his gaze back out to the open courtyard. "Just look at my parents..."

"Look at them," Hermione agreed. "They were happy."

"Yeah. And now they're dead." His hands fisted in his lap, and he had to force them to unclench. "The people who love me and who I love walk around with targets on their backs. Voldemort knows that the best way to get to _me_ is to get to _them_." His green eyes went to Ginny again, watching her longingly, hauntingly. But, once again, he forced himself to look away. "I can't make her more important than she already is," he told Hermione. "She's in enough danger by just being my friend." He met the Head Girl's gaze dully. "You both are," he said.

Hermione's brows furrowed as she watched him. "I knew you were afraid of losing her," she said quietly. "I never realized to what extent."

Harry shrugged a shoulder. "I need her in my life," he told her simply. "More importantly, I need her to _be_ alive. If that means just being friends, then I'm okay with that."

"Are you?" Hermione asked with a soft, skeptical smile. Harry said nothing, but she could see his jaw work. She shook her head. "If you let Voldemort control your life, you're letting him win," she reminded him quietly.

Still, he said nothing.

There was a pause. She looked back out at Ginny, who had somehow gotten hold of her brother's beloved camera and was now holding it out in front of her, taking pictures of herself.

Hermione smiled affectionately. "Asking her to the dance isn't a marriage proposal, Harry," she reasoned quietly after a while. "It's not written in stone or blood or anything." She glanced at him and then back again. "It's just one night—it doesn't have to mean more than that."

Harry's eyes watched Ginny as she turned the camera on her brother, assailing him with clicks and flashes until, with a laugh, he finally managed to grab it back.

"You can just... have a good time together," Hermione urged gently. "As friends, if that's what you really want."

Harry turned away from the group on the grass and back to the girl beside him. "I haven't decided," was all he would say.

Hermione nodded. "Okay," she conceded with a tender smile. She patted his hand; it was fisted tight. "Just don't take too long to make up your mind," she advised lightly. "She may not be available by the time you come around."

Harry looked down at the hand over his. "I know," he told her seriously. "Trust me."

Hermione smiled sadly, nodded again. She turned back to her book, but she kept her fingers wrapped around his.

* * *

Things were calm in the Slytherin common room that night. Students were gathered in groups along the leather sofas and chairs, quietly chatting over their steaming mugs and teacups.

Pansy sat at the center of her usual circle of girls, listening as they haughtily gabbed about their Halloween Dance dates; the detention they'd talked their way out of; the Potions exam they were sure they'd aced that afternoon. Her lips were curved into a self-satisfied smirk, but it had nothing to do with their worthless chatter. No, the smoke-eyed, blond-haired man who sat across the room was the source of her growing gratification.

She laughed under her breath.

Pansy Parkinson knew how to get what she wanted. There was more than one way to skin a cat—she'd learned that fact by carving the fur off the bodies herself. Whatever wasn't handed to you freely, you could simply buy or steal or charm your way into getting. Whatever wasn't going your way could easily be turned around with one carefully laid strategy or another.

Pansy knew how to turn things around, knew how to _win_, knew that oftentimes it meant taking a few shortcuts—or, in special cases, driving an opponent off the path. The wheels in her mind were always turning, always scheming, calculating. She had long ago mastered the art of manipulation, and she used it to mold the world around her like clay, shaping people and situations to fit her vision of how things should be.

There had only been one person she had been unable to shift or shape, one situation her powers had been unable to change.

Pansy's eyes intently watched the table across the room. Thin streams of cigar smoke twirled and twined as they rose up from below. Poker chips were stacked in neat rows and messy mounds on the dark wood surface, and an almost-empty bottle of Ogden's stood imperially at one end. Six boys sat around the counter's edge, each with a glass of amber liquid before him: Lawrence York, who was quickly passing out playing cards to the others; Goyle, who was glowering at the poor hand he'd just been dealt; Azhar Tarik, who looked thoughtful as he puffed on his cigar; Crabbe, who kept a possessive hand over his dwindling pile of chips; Blaise, who was watching the others amusedly over his fan of cards; and Draco, who sat aloofly, a pretty sixth-year on his lap, her arm hooked around the back of his neck as they both examined his hand.

Pansy's dark gaze narrowed as it considered the grey-eyed man.

Draco Malfoy was a mustang—he wanted to belong to nobody. He had been that way his entire life... wild, elusive, accountable to no one but himself. He had grown far too used to his unconcerned life, in which he abided by no laws, lived up to no expectations, and faced no consequences for his actions. He saw rules like prison bars restricting him, holding him back; saw responsibilities like iron chains weighing him down. He resented the obligation that came with calling another man master—or even calling a woman _wife_. He wanted to roam free, unburdened and unbridled, wanted to gallop without having to carry anyone on his back.

And so far, he'd been allowed to do just that. No one had been able to lure him into captivity. No one had been able to tame him—not even her.

But it was no matter, she told herself. He'd be caged in his corral soon enough. The Dark Mark would rein him in.

Nothing broke a wild horse like being branded.

And so there was no question, no doubt. Draco _would_ accept their future together. He would embrace it, would embrace _her_... eventually.

In the meantime, she would just have to be patient. She would have to tolerate his little indiscretions. They didn't matter, she told herself. His meaningless diversions were just that—_meaningless_. He felt no affection for those whores, no deep feelings, no connection beyond the physical. He certainly didn't _love_ them. He merely _used_ them. They were toys that he played with to distract himself from the fact that he _wasn't free_.

Or, at least... he wouldn't be for long.

Pansy's dark blue eyes brightened as she observed him. Hadassah was flirtatiously trying to get him to tilt his face up and kiss her. Surprisingly, he was ignoring her blatant attempts.

The smirk on Pansy's painted lips began to grow.

It was already beginning. He was calming down, straightening out—so gradually that no one had noticed, not even her, not until now. The Draco Malfoy she'd always known didn't care about anything or anyone. He could lose a king's ransom on a bet and laugh about it; he would drink whiskey straight from the bottle and not stop until every drop was gone; he treated whores like ladies and ladies like whores, and didn't apologize for doing either; and he did whatever he wanted to do, whether it was against the rules or not.

On closer inspection, however, she could see that the Draco before her was a much milder version of that man. He drank, but in smaller quantities. He played, but not nearly as hard. He missed party after party to attend to business instead—resembling his father, cautious instead of careless. The smile that had always been genuinely apathetic seemed to be merely pasted on now, as if he only wore it for the others, to mask the truth. He didn't want to admit that he was changing—not to his friends, not to her... perhaps not even to himself.

"What is _your _opinion, Pansy?"

The words had her turning her focus away from the man at the card table and back to the group of girls around her. "My opinion of what?" she asked nonchalantly.

The blonde girl beside her crossed her arms. "Of Brandon Madison taking that _mudblood_ to the dance."

"Isn't it just disgraceful?" another girl supplied when Pansy only aloofly sipped her tea. "I know the Madison family isn't the Eater sort, but they _certainly_ know to keep to their own kind." She shook her head with a disapproving sigh. "And I always thought Brandon was the perfect specimen of proper breeding..."

"His actions _are_ deplorable," Pansy answered breezily. "But why should I care if he dogs after some worthless girl?"

The other girls looked cautiously around at one another, all of them wondering if they had heard correctly. They had expected the usual repulsion or censure. Where was the snide derision? Where was the royal disfavor?

"Well, he _is_ a man, after all," Pansy explained. "_All_ men stray from the path every once in a while. It's harmless—as long as they don't wander off far enough to get lost." She placed her teacup on its saucer and carefully folded the napkin on her lap. "Now, I don't know Brandon beyond seeing him with his parents at a soiree here and there," she went on. "But if they've raised him correctly, I'm sure everything will be fine." Her wily gaze slowly traveled to Draco and the shameless sixth-year that sat on his lap. "Twenty years from now he'll be lying in bed beside his pureblood wife," she told them. "And that silly girl will be nothing more than a long-forgotten lapse in judgment."

An auburn-haired girl off to the right dared to be skeptical. "That's a very tolerant viewpoint," she applauded doubtfully. "But be honest, Pansy—would you be as patient if it was _Malfoy_ dipping his toes in the mud?"

Pansy let out a musical laugh, entertained by the absurdity of it. "His paramours _are_ filthy, my dear, but their bloodlines have all been pure," she stated dryly. "Draco may stray from the path, but he would never go that far." Her gaze returned to Draco. "Even he has his standards," she told them blandly.

She was about to look away again when her eyes connected with the dark eyes of Blaise Zabini. He was watching her with one eyebrow raised, studying her openly, knowingly. She watched with a patient smile as he asked to be dealt out of the next hand and slowly stood, his whiskey glass in one hand, a martini glass in the other, his cigar held securely between his teeth. Gradually he made his way across the room, approaching the group of girls.

Drink in hand, he reached up and removed the cigar from his mouth with his little and ring finger. "Ladies," he greeted, but his eyes were on Pansy.

The girls looked amongst themselves, then between their two superiors—and then they stood, taking the hint and getting out of the way.

Their blue-eyed queen smiled superiorly, waiting until they were gone to turn back to the man before her. "I really can count on you, Blaise," she complimented with a tight smile. "You're always there to break up a good time."

"Was that a good time?" he asked her dryly. "It looked an awful lot like a boring tea party." He smiled placidly when she rolled her eyes. "Here," he prompted, holding out the martini glass. "I figured you could use something a little stronger."

Pansy crossed her arms. She didn't so much as look at the glass. "You were clearly winning your poker game and yet you dropped it to serve me a cocktail." She arched one defined brow. "What do you want, Blaise," she asked him pointedly.

Zabini's only response was a charming smile.

Pansy shook her head. Her skeptical gaze went from his to the cocktail glass. "What is it?" she asked after a moment, her eyes narrowing on the clear liquid.

"Gin and Goblinwater, of course."

"My favorite," she stated guardedly. Blaise nodded, holding the thing out again. She glared at it a moment, but inevitably accepted it, primly taking it from him and holding it close. She sipped the liquid regally as he took a seat on the sofa beside her.

Swirling lines of cigar smoke wisped by her face, causing her lip to curl. "Would you put that thing out?" she asked him irritably. "You know I can't stand the smell." Blaise held a hand up in sarcastic surrender and did as he was asked, placing the cigar in a nearby ashtray where it quickly burned out. "Really, I don't know _how_ you can smoke those things," she said, watching the last trail of smoke evaporate in disgust.

"It's surprisingly straightforward," Blaise told her. "You simply... inhale." He smiled when she only rolled her eyes again.

There was a pause. Neither looked at the other. Instead, they watched the room, he leisurely sprawled out against the sofa's cushioned back, she with her knees together and her spine stick-straight.

"That was quite the smirk you were wearing before I came over," he said interestedly after a while. "You were practically preening. Feeling particularly smug this evening?"

"And what if I am?" she returned primly. "I'm allowed to be happy every once in a while." She glanced at him then. "But something's telling me you're here to put your usual damper on things."

He drank from his own glass. "Perceptive," was all he said.

Pansy let out a dramatic sigh. "Why must you always spoil my good moods?" she complained.

"Because they're usually the result of one delusion or another," he said back dryly. "And as amusing as I find your little notions to be, _someone_ has to be the voice of reason."

Pansy smiled blandly over her cocktail glass. "So I'm in for one of your legendary reality checks, am I?" she asked. "I warn you, tonight I'm going to be especially hard to convince. You see, I've been collecting data to support my... little notion, as you call it."

"And what notion is it tonight?" the man beside her asked.

Pansy took her time answering, sipping her gin with a satisfied smile. "That things are finally starting to come together the way they're supposed to," she told him at last. "For the first time, I see our pupil making progress."

The words put Blaise on immediate alert. "By pupil I assume you mean Malfoy," he said guardedly. His dark gaze glanced to Draco. "Although I can't even _begin_ to imagine what you mean by progress."

"You can't?" Pansy asked. Blaise only raised a brow. "Look over there," she commanded quietly, nodding to the blond man that sat across the room.

Blaise humored her, following her gaze, his eyes returning to look his friend over. "Glass in hand. Girl on lap," he observed wryly. "It all looks pretty standard to me."

"That's the same glass you poured him when he first arrived," Pansy informed him triumphantly. "Don't you find it unusual that he's been here for an hour and hasn't even finished one drink?"

Blaise's gaze turned wary, but he shrugged a nonchalant shoulder. "He obviously has something else there to occupy him," he pointed out.

Pansy waved a trivial hand. "You mean Hadassah?" she said of the dark-haired flirt on Malfoy's lap. "He's hardly even said two words to girl," she dismissed.

"You mean... he doesn't care about her?" Blaise asked, feigning shock. "Come now, Pansy, you're making something out of nothing."

"Am I?" Pansy countered crisply. "He's been inexplicably absent from every party. I haven't seen him make a wager or touch a deck of cards since the end of last term."

"Until tonight," Blaise cut in.

Pansy wouldn't be swayed. "He doesn't drink the way he used to—he doesn't _whore around_ the way he used to."

"Greta Berg," Blaise reminded her glibly.

Pansy only smiled. "You know as well as I that a single slut is nothing to the list of them that he once had on his payroll," she countered coolly. "He was weaning himself off. It takes baby steps," she reasoned. "I would never expect an addict to be able to quit cold turkey."

"How understanding of you," Blaise stated mildly, lifting a brow. A pause. "I suppose it was some other jealous chit who was poisoning the girl, then."

Pansy straightened, her smile tinted with cold satisfaction. "Like I told the good professors, I don't know a thing about that," she replied with false innocence. "However, I will admit that I'm not the least bit surprised. A girl of Greta's age and experience should know that certain choices have natural consequences…"

Blaise took a long gulp of whiskey. "I'm afraid your definition of the word 'natural' may be a bit skewed," he informed her amusedly. She only smiled sweetly, causing him to shake his head. "I have to hand it to you, Pansy. You certainly do have some creative ways of problem-solving."

"I maintain that I had absolutely nothing to do with Miss Berg's unfortunate illness," she insisted. "I'm just as relieved as the next person to hear that she will be making a swift recovery." She ran a teasing fingertip along the wide rim of her glass. "The girl should really be more careful though," she stated in a patronizing voice. "Sexual exploits like hers are dangerous—they can create a whole world of hurt." She casually brushed a piece of lint from her dark pencil skirt. "I suppose we should all be very grateful syphilis is no longer a fatal affliction."

"And even more grateful that mercury still manages to do the trick." Blaise watched as Pansy nonchalantly sipped the last little bit of gin from her glass. "You can't poison every girl he sleeps with, you know," he told her.

"I suppose you're right," she sighed. And then she smiled flippantly. "I'll just have to get rid of the next one some other way." Her gaze went to Draco, gazing at him with loving pride. "If there even _is_ a next one," she added smugly.

Blaise shook his head. "I must say, your determination is commendable," he said with narrowed eyes. "I know from experience what a Sisyphean task trying to control Malfoy can be. That's why my own attempts are only halfhearted." He paused, watching as she gently placed her empty glass on the coffee table. "But you? You keep rolling the boulder uphill," he stated dryly. "I've never seen someone work so hard for so little pay."

"It will have its reward eventually," Pansy assured him. "One day the boulder will stop rolling back down. One day it will stay right where it belongs."

"That is very optimistic. But I'm afraid the forces of nature are against you."

Pansy merely laughed. "I'm a witch, Blaise," she reminded him. "I defy gravity every day." Her small smile turned into an arrogant smirk. "And I'm not afraid to use a little magic when I need to."

"Yes. Magic and mercury," Blaise returned.

Pansy waved the words off with a flip of her hand.

The dark-skinned boy watched her with a raised brow. "If you ask me, girls like Greta are the ones having all the fun," he told her mildly after a while. He tilted his head, considering her. "It can't be very fulfilling, keeping yourself all packaged up," he mused, "except for the infrequent occasions when Malfoy decides to unwrap you."

Pansy's smile tensed, but it stayed in place. Her chin lifted half an inch. "On the contrary. I embrace my casing," she informed him primly. "It keeps me in pristine condition—not like the other rag dolls he plays with, all stained and soiled and tattered by too much use." She watched Hadassah for a moment, her gaze narrowing on the girl as she whispered something into Draco's ear. "Call me old-fashioned, but I believe a woman should only shed her 'packaging' for her husband," she stated with a condescending smile. "I save what's underneath for Draco, and Draco alone."

"Which _would_ be admirable," Blaise said back, "_if_ he did the same for you. But he never has, Pansy," he reminded her frankly. "It's naïve to think he ever will."

Pansy let out a sound of exasperated amusement. "You men are all the same," she laughed. "Is it so impossible to fathom a world where two people are completely committed to one another?"

"It isn't impossible," Blaise said blandly. "In regard to you and Malfoy, however, I'll have to see it to believe it."

Pansy clucked her tongue with a smile. "Oh, not to worry, Blaise," she comforted. "I don't think either of us will have to wait much longer. Hell is freezing over as we speak..." Her scheming gaze slowly went across the room, watching with satisfaction as Draco declined another drink.

Blaise watched, too, shaking his head. He turned back to her. "Don't roll out the red carpet or sound the trumpets just yet," he advised. "One night of sobriety isn't cause for celebration."

"One night isn't," she agreed. "But it hasn't only been one night." Her wistful cobalt gaze watched Draco warmly. "He's different," she concluded. "Changing." She shook her head, her smile small and affectionate. "He's trying to pretend that he isn't, but I can see through right through that little endeavor."

Blaise looked at her mildly. "And would you say your x-ray vision is 20/20?" he mocked. "Or do you find yourself having to squint?"

Pansy turned to him, one dark brow arching beneath her bangs. "What do _you_ think?" she asked him knowingly. "How accurate _is _my eyesight, Blaise?"

The dark boy said nothing, only looked back across the room to where Malfoy sat ignoring the empty glass before him and the silly girl on his lap.

"I know you know what I'm talking about," Pansy taunted from beside him. "I know you see it, too."

Blaise smiled grimly and drank the last of the amber in his glass. He saw it, all right—saw _all _of it. And because he saw all of it, he knew that Pansy had absolutely nothing to look forward to. None of them did.

He watched her and felt almost sympathetic. She didn't know that everything they'd worked and waited for was in jeopardy. She didn't know that Malfoy was far worse off than he'd ever been before. These changes she perceived... they had nothing to do with his devotion to the Mark. This wasn't progress—it was a disease. And if he didn't get rid of it soon, it would surely kill him.

It would kill everyone who was counting on him to be the man that they expected.

"He is different. Changing," Blaise conceded at last. "But I wouldn't be too quick to say that it's for the better," he told her meaningfully. "I wouldn't be too quick to say that it's for you."

Pansy only laughed. "Me, the Mark, the Dark Lord, his father—the inspiration hardly matters," she dismissed. "As long as the end result is the same."

"End result?"

Pansy's expectant eyes gazed at Draco. "A man who is steadfast and reliable. A man who chooses work over play—who puts soberness before pleasure, and duty before desire. A man who values things like discretion and _moderation_. A man who cares about how his actions reflect on his good name. A man who does what he should, when he should. A man who sees reason and _listens _to it."

Blaise raised a cynical brow. "That man sounds like something out of a dream," he told her lightly. "And _nothing_ like Draco Malfoy."

"_Draco Malfoy_ has to grow up _sometime_," Pansy snapped harshly. "There's only so much playing around a man can do before he has to settle down." She folded her hands in her lap, her grip tense. "Come November 1st, he'll have more pressing places to be than the nearest brothel or pub or poker table," she told him tightly. "And he'll have responsibilities he can no longer drink or shag away."

Blaise shrugged a shoulder. "That's true enough," he said. He paused, his gaze narrowing. "But he's still Malfoy, Pansy," he told her. "He'll _always_ be Malfoy." He looked to the blond-haired man with an inward sigh. "Some things never change."

Pansy patted his knee with a smile. "Oh ye of little faith."

"No faith, Pansy," he corrected seriously. "No faith at all."

Pansy drew her hand back as if she'd been burned. Still, she kept the tight smile in place. "You're wrong, Blaise," she told him confidently. "You're wrong, and I intend to prove it."

The dark-skinned boy nodded slowly. "I know you do," he said.

Pansy only rolled her eyes at him again. And then in an instant, she expertly exchanged her flippant look for a sultry, seductive smile. She stood from the sofa and smoothed the wrinkles from her charcoal-colored skirt. Blaise watched with one brow raised as she slinked across the room towards the card table, her strides purposeful and slow.

Goyle saw her coming and raised his glass in salute—an action that had Hadassah's head turning in curiosity. The younger girl's easy smile immediately slid from her face. A single superior look from the Slytherin Princess was all it took to scare the poor girl off; gaze averted, she stood from Draco's lap and obediently scurried away.

With a satisfied smirk, Pansy took the girl's place, wrapping her arm around his broad shoulders and tilting her head against his.

Draco said nothing, did nothing, only went on rearranging his cards.

* * *

The clocks were silently striking midnight when he crossed the threshold into his own room.

It was dark. Moonlight was streaming in through the undraped glass, shedding just enough light to maneuver around. Coins jingled from inside of his robe, solemn victory bells chiming against the silence. Reaching down, Draco pulled the small drawstring bag from his pocket and tossed his winnings onto the mattress in front of him. The familiar sound had always brought a smile to his face. Analyzing it now, however, he saw the echoes for what they were—signs of a hollow, empty life.

He could smell himself, that old blend of whiskey, cigars, and designer perfume. The scent had never bothered him before, but tonight it had him gritting his teeth in disgust.

Draco moved to his bed and slowly lowered to the edge, his silver gaze watching beyond the balcony to the sky.

He'd wasted so much time amusing himself—with cards, with alcohol, with women. Life had been a game, and he'd willingly played it out, not caring if he won or lost, not caring who he hurt. All that had ever mattered was that he was distracted—from the future that he couldn't escape, from the dark responsibility that waited there. It hadn't mattered if he lost a fortune at the poker tables or if some professor caught him with his pants down, ready to give it to some girl. It was things like that that kept life from being boring; he'd merely laughed off such events with the indifference of a king.

Draco's gaze fell from the starless sky to the bedside table. Slowly, he opened the drawer and reached inside. His hand closed around the small glass vial.

Life was still a game, only now the stakes were higher. It wasn't a laughing matter, not anymore. Hermione's fate was resting in the balance—if he gambled and lost, it was _her_ that would have to pay.

He looked at the vial with haunted eyes. He was finally in too deep. After a lifetime of getting in and out of trouble—of being invincible—Draco Malfoy was finally in over his head.

And he'd gone too far to turn back now. Keeping her close would be dangerous, but letting her go would be just as big a risk.

He looked back out to the purple night sky, his grip tightening around the cool glass.

_There's always more..._

What did the Dark Lord want with Hermione?

"There you are." Her quiet voice came like a whisper from behind him.

She was standing in the darkness of the doorway to the bathroom. He could feel her bright brown eyes on his back, but didn't turn. "Here I am," he agreed dully, keeping his grey gaze on the black horizon.

Hermione watched his back with uncertain eyes. She didn't dare step into the room. "You didn't come to bed," she said quietly after a while.

"It's late," he explained. "I didn't want to wake you."

Hermione smiled hesitantly. "You know I don't mind."

Draco looked over his shoulder. "I do," he told her firmly. He looked back out at the sky. "You need your rest."

"So do you," she whispered.

A moment passed. And then Draco stood, quickly pocketing the vial before she could see it, putting on a smile. "No. I need a shower," he corrected, coming forward. "I reek of cigar smoke and cheap liquor."

Hermione reached for his hand as he neared her. "I don't mind."

"I do," he said again, holding her away before she could pick up the clinging scent of Pansy's perfume. "Go back to sleep," he commanded gently.

Hermione shook her head. "I can't," she said simply. _Not without you..._

Somehow Draco understood the unspoken words. Tenderly, he reached up, tucking one long ringlet behind her ear. "Go," he ordered softly. "I'll be there in a while."

Hermione let him lead her over the cool bathroom tiles to the open door of her own room. Slowly, he released her hand, allowing her to move to the bed. She drew the covers back and carefully climbed inside—sighing inwardly at the quiet click of the bathroom door.

She closed her eyes, listening to the sound of the shower running in the next room. He would come, she told herself. He would be there in a while.

But minutes later, the shower was off and still he hadn't come. More than enough time passed—_too much_ time. She didn't dare look at the clock, didn't even dare to open her eyes. She was afraid that minutes had become hours... was afraid that the sun was rising without him, afraid that he wasn't going to come...

But then, all of a sudden, she felt the blankets lift, felt his built body slide into the bed next to hers.

"There you are," she whispered, this time with a smiling sigh of relief.

"Here I am," he answered, wrapping his arms around her, burying his face in her tresses and breathing her in.

* * *

The moon was still high in the sky when the harsh sound of knocking interrupted the silence. Drowsily, Hermione lifted her head from its place on Draco's shoulder, her eyes blurry with sleep. He shifted, too, turning his face to look at the clock.

"What could they _possibly _want at four in the _bloody _morning?" he groaned, closing his eyes again, willing the intruders away with his mind.

It didn't work.

"Hey Mione! It's us!"

Sitting up, Hermione's dark brown eyes looked warily from the door to the man at her side. "I guess you should go," she whispered, yawning, looking down into his silver eyes, just below hers.

He reached up, combing a hand through her tangled curls. "No. Just tell them to come back."

Hermione smiled tiredly, taking his hand from her hair and holding it in her own. "Come on," she urged. "They wouldn't wake me up in the middle of the night if it wasn't important."

"We know it's late, Mione, but it's important!"`

Hermione smiled. "See?"

Draco rolled his eyes. "It had _better _be damn important," he muttered under his breath, ripping the covers off, forcing himself up off the bed and out of the room.

Hermione watched him leave with an affectionate smile. Once he was gone, she hurried to find the gold key that opened the door.

Harry and Ron were waiting on the other side, donned in their checkered pajama pants and white undershirts. Their hair was ruffled from sleep, and they looked so adorable that Hermione forgave them immediately for disturbing her time with Draco.

"It's a little early, don't you think?" she asked, one eyebrow raising tiredly.

"Harry just had a vision," Ron explained, his voice hushed and hurried. "About Death Eaters—and You-Know-Who—and there was some kind of meeting—and _Malfoy_, and—_ouch!_" Ron rubbed his arm where Harry had punched him. "What'd you do that for?" he asked angrily.

"You're overwhelming her," Harry said back. "She's barely even opened the door and you're already pelting her with information."

Hermione's brain had stopped working at the word _Malfoy_, and for some reason she couldn't get it to start back up again. "Come in," she said absently, opening the door wider. They did, walking by her and into the room. They settled themselves on the edge of her bed, but she didn't follow. She was suddenly far too restless to sit. "Now... what is this business about Malfoy?" she asked calmly.

Harry crossed his arms uncomfortably. "Well… it's all very hazy," he began, frowning. "It started out at some sort of gathering. There were hundreds of Death Eaters, and they were all standing in rows, watching some kind of…" He shook his head. "I don't know… some kind of _ceremony_."

"A Dark Arts ritual?" Hermione asked, her brows creasing.

"Maybe, yeah," Harry said with a shrug. "There was chanting, I think. It's all kind of blur," he went on with a troubled sigh. "But… I think the whole thing was for _Malfoy_."

Hermione swallowed. "What do you mean, 'for Malfoy?' What does that mean?"

"It was some kind of ceremony to _make_ him a Death Eater."

There was silence. And then Hermione was shaking her head. "No," she denied faintly. "No, you must have misinterpreted."

Harry's eyes narrowed speculatively. "Hermione, I _saw_ Voldemort burn the Dark Mark into his arm with my own eyes," he told her slowly. "What is there to misinterpret?"

Hermione swallowed, an icy fist gripping her heart.

_Business… _she'd wondered what the word had meant—hadn't dared to believe that it meant _this_. The thought had briefly crossed her mind, but she'd dismissed it at once as the remnants of her childhood perceptions. He wouldn't have touched her, held her, not if he intended _this_. He wouldn't have taken care of her, only to hurt her in the end—only to _hate_ her in the end. Draco wouldn't do that to her—couldn't.

But… maybe _Malfoy _could.

A thousand questions rushed into Hermione's mind, racing through at the speed of light. Nothing was adding up, nothing was making sense.

Harry examined his friend with a frown. That familiar broken look was suddenly edging its way back into her eyes, that old sadness dulling the bright honey depths. What was she thinking? What was she feeling? And what did it have to do with Draco Malfoy?

"That's not the end of it," he continued quietly after a moment, carefully watching for her reaction. "Just before Malfoy received the Mark, I saw him hand Voldemort a small glass vial."

"A vial…" Hermione hesitated. "A vial of what?"

Harry shook his head. "I don't know," he told her. "A potion, maybe. Whatever it was, it was dark. Black."

Hermione took a deep breath. Her mind was running at a million miles an hour, and she could only hold on to one thought.

_There's always more, isn't there? There's always more…_

Emerald eyes carefully studied Hermione. She never spoke about Malfoy, never talked about their interactions, or if they interacted at all. Harry had always assumed that things were as they'd always been. He had never in his wildest dreams imagined that things had changed—had never imagined that they even could.

But it didn't seem so unreasonable now that he thought about it. After all, Draco Malfoy had _saved Hermione's life._ That experience would connect them to each other on some level, would bind them together, whether they wanted it to or not.

And of course that would change Hermione. Of course it would confuse her.

Harry rose from his place on the bed and slowly went to her. "I know he saved your life, Hermione," he said after a moment. "But one good deed doesn't make Malfoy a good man. It doesn't mean he's a different person now." He took Hermione's hand in his. "I know you want to believe the best in people," he continued cautiously, "and that you're a caring person by nature. But he's not worth it." He shook his head seriously. "He doesn't care about anyone but himself."

Hermione nodded numbly, but her insides were churning with denials. The Draco Malfoy she'd come to know was safe, and true, so unlike the one Harry described. That one was cold, harsh—a pleasure-driven rogue without a care for what he did or who he hurt…

Without wanting to, Hermione remembered _that_ Draco, the one that had plagued her childhood without conscience. How was she to know which man was the real Draco and which was the front? Could it be that they were one in the same?

"Do you think you have any books that might tell us what kind of ceremony Harry saw?" Ron asked her, fluffing one of her pillows and laying his head back against it.

Hermione shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts. "Not enough is known about Voldemort's inner workings to be published in the mainstream," she said quietly. A dull ache was starting to pound at her temple, making it hard to think. "But there is… Hoffman's Journal."

"Who?" Ron asked.

"Cavanaugh Hoffman. He was a Death Eater in Voldemort's highest circle—some people think he was his right-hand man. One of his diaries was found when he was apprehended. It has information about rituals and customs and things like that."

"They were published?" Harry asked.

"For training Aurors. They're not exactly open to the public, but, um, I have a pirated copy…" her gaze blindly scanned the room, "somewhere around here." She passed a trembling hand over her forehead, a sign that the fragility was not completely gone.

"You okay, Mione?" Ron asked with a frown. "Your hands are shaking."

Hermione turned her palms up. "Are they?" she asked, not seeing the worried glances Harry and Ron exchanged. "I didn't realize…"

All the uncertainties that had _finally_ been wiped away were back in full power now, infecting her heart, her soul. The solemn emptiness was looming all around, threatening to seep beneath her skin. The silent call for blood boiled inside of her, the desperate need for the release of poison, for the reassurance of humanity. How long had it been since she'd had to sew up a cut? All of a sudden, it felt like a lifetime too long.

"Bloody hell," Harry exclaimed, seeing how pale Hermione was, how weak and tired. "This could have waited until morning. We're sorry, Mione." He nudged Ron, who nodded.

"Yeah, we're sorry," he agreed, standing from the bed. "Here—we'll let you get some rest."

"I'm not tired," she said absently, her eyes roaming the room as each of her friends leaned down to kiss her forehead. "I'll look for the Journal. I'm sure it'll tell us something. We're…" she paused, bringing one unsteady hand to her temple, "we're finally getting somewhere, I think."

"Just go back to sleep, Mione," Harry ordered softly. "We'll worry about the rest tomorrow."

"Tomorrow," she agreed.

They put the gold key into the keyhole, twisted, opening the door. "Goodnight, Hermione," Ron said quietly as he began to close it again.

"Goodnight."

But they were already gone, leaving Hermione alone to her thoughts.

Uncertainty was a flood inside of her, a deep and powerful river that surged through her veins and emptied into her head. The rush of it left her feeling restless, worn. There were so many questions, _too _many, causing a whirlwind of doubt to overtake her. Draco, a Death Eater? Could it really be true?

The familiar weariness was threatening to fall over her, that old emptiness she had left for forgotten. Swallowing, she ran a finger over her wrist, where underneath the spell, the old scars remained. She could almost feel the blood throb against her fingertips, pounding to be free of the narrow passages beneath her skin.

Warily, she looked at her wand. The wood seemed to shine in the moonlight, her only answer to the sudden uncertainties, the questions. Slowly, she reached out a hand for it, paused. Hadn't she promised herself there would be no more blood? For her friends' sakes, for her own, hadn't she decided not to add to the scars? To find a better way?

_A better way. _If there even was such a thing. Fate had never given her many options. What had the blade ever been but a last resort? Still, she knew she had to try, for Harry and Ron… for herself. Taking a deep breath, she pushed the stick under her pillow and out of sight. The Journal would be her answer this time. She would let it be her truth.

Hermione stood from the bed, trying to visualize the last place she'd seen the book. It had been at the beginning of the term, she remembered, during one of those restless nights. She had been tiredly thumbing through the pages, her body curled beneath the covers. She had been mid-sentence when sleep had finally found her.

She slowly dropped to her knees, looking under the bedside table. There was dust, a bit of lint—but no book. She reached underneath the bed, her hand searching for the hardcover copy. Her fingers brushed something soft; it was Crookshanks, hiding in his usual spot. Hermione felt around for a few seconds before the palm of her hand finally came into contact with its intended target. As she pulled it out, her hand swept against a half-crumpled piece paper. Curious, she raked it up, bringing it out with the dusty book.

Frowning, she opened the page, smoothed it out, her eyes scanning the brief message written across it. What she read there had her blood running cold.

_We need to discuss the parameters of your Joining into the First Circle. _

_One week. Be here at dawn. There is much to say. LM_

Without taking her eyes from the note, Hermione opened the book. She quickly fished through the pages, searching for any sign that the message didn't mean what she thought it did. It seemed like an eternity before she found a useful entry. As she read the words, her heart began to numb out.

_May 18, 1994_

_Today I have learned that the First Circle will receive its newest member—for preservation's sake I shall refer to him as GP._

_GP joins us earlier than I am comfortable with. He's still in school—only in his sixth year at Hogwarts. We were all younger than that, of course, in starting down the same path. But the peak of that climb should not be so soon. Most boys at that age are not of the right mind. They are not devoted, as they have to be; armored, as they have to be. Most are soft-shelled, arrogant fools... boys who puff out their chests, who are quick to use their wands, or even their fists, who act hard and tough and unbreakable, but who choke at the thought of killing and who shake at the thought of being killed._

_GP is exactly one of these boys. So imagine my revulsion when the Dark Lord asked me if I wanted to be the one to Mark him. With respect, I declined, as I always do. I could never Mark a man. I cannot and will not be responsible for children like GP, who have no business joining our ranks. I've seen a hundred whelps just like him prematurely joined. Inevitably, they fall. They don't understand the commitment that comes with the Mark. To them, it's just a pretty tattoo, a brand to show off, to fling around and feel important. To them, it is merely a ticket to further their ambition. To them, Death Eater is merely a password, one that permits them into exclusive parties where they can drink expensive wine and mingle with the elite. They see this life as one big soiree. They don't understand how much work it is, how much strength it takes._

_GP doesn't have that kind of strength. His father hasn't taught him a thing. The boy is naïve. He's not ready, that much is clear to me._

_I wouldn't Mark him, even if he was..._

_LM will do the honors. I doubt he wants to, either, but there it is._

_Anyone who is anyone will be in attendance. I am told it is to be quite the affair, one to rival any Joining Ceremony that came before it. With all this fuss, people will assume that GP is the Heir. But of course, that could never be the case. The title calls for the purest of lines, and everybody knows that there is tainted blood on the maternal side..._

Hermione closed her eyes, swallowed. Her fingers growing heavy, she slowly turned the page, skipping to the next relevant entry. With a deep breath she opened her eyes again, and willed herself to read on.

_May 20, 1994_

_My perceptions of GP have been proven true. Even before the ceremony began, his hardened front had melted away. His body visibly quaked at the sight of the Dark Lord in the pews. He was too quick to kneel. He stammered in speech. He cried out when the Mark was burned into his arm—it could have been pain, but I am almost certain it was regret._

_It isn't lollipops and daffodils, this world we have created. There are very real reasons why one should be afraid. But that he was, and that it showed, proves he hasn't been properly prepared._

_Well, it is too late to go back now. Once the Dark Mark is branded into your skin, it cannot be removed. He is in for a fast, harsh lesson. And a very rude awakening. The boy will have to find the man within himself... will have to shed his younger skin, and fast, or it will be torn away for him._

_As expected, it was a very grand event. People were dressed in their best attire and their most expensive jewels. Faces were clean—and bared for all to see. There was no hiding, not a shred of discretion or secrecy. It is so open and free nowadays. I am not used to the casual way Eaters dance about. Flaunting your loyalties is a sure way to get the attention of your enemies. And a sure way to end up in Azkaban for good._

_What happened to the savvy? Was there ever a time we needed caution more than now?_

_But in blueblood society, it is all about what you have and not about what you know. This silly dependence on showmanship and grandeur is something I've been sorry to see develop. Like the others of my time, I did not have a lavish ceremony. I said my vows to my Marker and a single, solitary witness. Every one of us was masked; every word we spoke was whispered; every meeting we had was clandestine. That we were aristocrats was happenstance. We chose to keep that separate, so as not to draw notice._

_But things were different then. Expectations were higher. Tasks were much more severe. There were far fewer of us then than there are now. I suppose loyalty was harder to come by..._

Slowly, Hermione closed the book and pushed it back under the bed. So there had been no misinterpretation. It _was_ exactly as Harry had seen, what he had thought—a ritual, a ceremony to celebrate being joined into the darkness. Draco Malfoy would be marked as a disciple of the killer who had made countless attempts on her and her friends' lives.

She read the wrinkled note again, then again, her body going numb. The answers to her questions were all here, written in Lucius Malfoy's tilted handwriting. The truth was settling in, cold as ice. The familiar pangs of nothing stabbed into her chest, and she closed her eyes tiredly, defeated by the abyss.

"Are they finally gone? It's about bloody time," came Draco's voice through the fog. "What did they want?"

Hermione weakly shrugged one shoulder, her eyes not meeting his. There was nothing to say, nothing to do. _Nothing…_ She was filled with it. All complex thought was deadening in her mind, falling into big blank spaces and emptiness. She felt tired, worn out. Had she ever felt any other way?

Draco felt the change in her and was at her side in a second. Crouching down on his haunches, he took her hand in his. "What is it?" he asked, his gaze searching her face. She didn't meet his eyes, causing his brows to furrow. "What's wrong?" he demanded urgently, hating the familiar look of defeat.

When she still didn't speak he grabbed her other hand, finding the paper inside of it. "What is this?" he asked, taking it and smoothing it out. He immediately recognized the script, recognized the words. With a clenched jaw, he shot back up to his feet, crumpling the note in his fist.

"This… it is a complicated matter," he began, his back to her. "It's not what you think."

"Isn't it?" she asked, her soft eyes cast downward.

Draco looked to the ceiling. "You don't understand." His voice was dangerously low.

"Don't I?" she countered. There was no bite in her tone, just quiet acceptance.

Draco turned, shook his head. "This… this is nothing," he told her.

"It's something."

"It's nothing!" He threw the balled-up note to the ground. Taking a deep breath, he worked for patience. When he spoke next, his voice was quiet, forcefully reserved. "I wish I could explain, but I _can't_," he told her.

"I'm not asking for an explanation."

"What then?" he asked her. "What do you want?"

"Nothing." It was a lie. She closed her eyes, all the fight she had left quickly slipping away. "I'm tired," she told him, closing her eyes. "Please... leave me alone."

Draco looked at the door. She was giving him a perfect out, and he knew he should take it. He'd have to walk away sooner or later. Wouldn't sooner be better? That way no one got hurt.

But even as his brain told him to do what she asked, his heart was guiding him forward, back to her. How could he leave her, broken and alone? How could he let her believe that he didn't care?

He was at her side again, kneeling so that his desperate eyes were just above hers. "There's always more," he told her, needing her to understand. "You said you couldn't hate me for it." She didn't respond. Her brown eyes stayed downcast, causing him to force her chin up urgently, making him something strangely akin to desperate. "You said you wouldn't hate me," he reminded her, his silver eyes wild.

"I don't hate you," she whispered. But still she wouldn't look at him.

He'd needed to hear the words, but once she said them, he found they weren't enough. The way her eyes stayed down, the way her shoulders slumped, so defeated, so disappointed… it was tearing him apart, eating him alive. He grabbed those delicate shoulders, gripping tight. "Listen to me," he begged her. "Look at me." She didn't do either, making him grit his teeth. "Please," he pleaded tensely, not knowing what exactly he was pleading for. "Please, Hermione…"

Her honey eyes shifted to his at the plea, and her heart broke a little inside her chest. Had she ever heard him say her name before? If she had, she couldn't remember. Hearing it now was bittersweet. It was strangely like hearing goodbye.

She held the diamond at her chest in a loose, weary grip.

"I know you never said it," she said numbly after while. The remnants of a tired smile lingered on her lips. "You never put words to it... What we have. What we are..." She shook her head, her dark curls swaying. "I thought it meant something, though," she whispered. "I thought it was real." Her honey-brown eyes were intent on her forearms, a glassy and broken look glazing over them. "But it's like this skin," she laughed, the sound a bitter whisper. "It's just another spell."

Draco took her face in his hands, forcing her to look into his moon-silver eyes. "You're wrong," he said, adamant. "It _is _real. I promise you, it is."

Hermione's smile was sad. "How can I be sure?"

Draco said nothing—could say nothing. The hard feel of his lips against hers was the only answer.

Hermione's eyes widened in surprise before slowly dropping down. She moaned, her mouth opening as he pulled her against him, his tongue sweeping against hers in powerful, passionate strokes.

She had been dead seconds ago, but this… this revived her.

Draco moved his mouth to her cheek, to her jaw line, down her neck, kissing her with soft desperation. "How could this not be real?" His voice was a ragged whisper against her skin. "Don't you feel it?" He kissed his way back up her throat, hot open-mouthed kisses that left her delirious.

She nodded, her breathing labored and fast. Yes, she felt it. Whatever it was, she felt it.

His body was over hers, pressing her down into the floor. His mouth was moving over hers, letting their tongues meet, mate. Her hands clenched his shirt; his were in her hair, combing through the thick locks of silk.

Desire was burning molten lava throughout his entire body, causing him to see red. He couldn't get close enough, couldn't feel enough. He wanted—needed—every part of her touching every part of him, needed it fast. And by the way she was kissing him, she needed it too.

Her body was pressing upwards, the softness fitting to the hardness of his. His hands were suddenly moving all over her body, running underneath her shirt, along her skin.

And then, just as suddenly, he pulled himself back, breathing hard, looking down at her flushed face and questioning gaze. "This is why I can't kiss you," he told her unevenly. His hand ran under her t-shirt, over her abdomen, his jaw tightening at the softness of her skin. "This is why. Do you understand now?"

Hermione shook her head helplessly, her breath coming in and out in ragged bursts.

Draco swallowed, searching for the willpower to release her. He was playing with fire, and someone was bound to get burned. Burned—or even killed. No matter how much he desired her body, her soul, he could never let himself have her. Never.

"You're not ready for this," he said to her—said to himself. It wasn't a lie, but it wasn't everything. He didn't dare tell her the rest, the inconvenient truth… about his dark future, about how she couldn't fit into it. He didn't dare say the real reason he couldn't touch her. She had the puzzle pieces in her hand, but he knew putting the black picture together would only make it worse.

A sad smile crossed Hermione's face. "I'm not a virgin," she said, not understanding. "You know I'm not."

The words hit Draco's heart, made it ache. He cupped her face in his hands again, his grip straining to stay tender. "Yes you are." His voice was quiet, firm. "You didn't give that bastard anything. He took it from you against your will." His gaze softened as he watched her look away again. He moved his hand to stroke her hair.

"You don't have to treat me fragilely just because..." She trailed off, sighed. "I know how you are with girls… what you want from them. It's not a secret."

Draco's hand stilled in her hair. "No," he said cautiously. "No, it's not."

"It's okay," she assured him quietly. "You can have what you want." She brought her uncertain eyes back to his. "I want to be what you expect."

Draco had never been particularly proud of the things he'd done... jumping from one bed to another, from one girl to the next, without so much as a hello or a goodbye, without any feeling at all. He had never looked back with any real satisfaction. Still, he had never actually been ashamed.

Never, until now.

Draco clenched his jaw against the pangs of regret. "You told me not to expect anything at all," he reminded her. She looked away again, self-conscious, but he caught her chin, forced her eyes back to his. "I don't need that from you," he told her seriously.

"You needed it from the other girls."

"Forget about the other girls, Granger," Draco commanded. "I have."

Yes, but that was the trouble. Too many girls, all so easily forgotten. Involuntarily, she remembered stumbling in on him and a topless Greta Berg, lost together in the throes of passion. Hermione took a deep breath, in and out. Was she like the rest of them, a quick fancy, a mere amusement? Would he leave her like he had the others, to move on to bigger, better things? Darker things? Would it be easy to walk away?

Hermione was feeling tired again, the uncertainties permanently wedging their way back into her heart.

"Do you even want me?" she heard herself ask, her voice a broken whisper.

Draco swallowed, his heart contracting at the defeated tone. She didn't trust him—and why should she? His sordid past and his sinister future would always stand between them. One part of him was relived; maybe this way it would be easier to let go, to move on. But the other, stronger part of him was out of his mind with frustration. He wanted to beg her to believe in him, to love him, despite all the things he had done, despite all the things he would do. He wanted to tell her that she was all he thought about, dreamed about—that she was all that mattered.

But he didn't.

"I want you," he said instead, the words a quiet promise. "But I won't take you."

There was tension all around them. Hermione pressed her head back against the carpeted floor. "Because I'm not ready?" she whispered.

Draco looked down into her eyes, into her soul. "Because neither of us is."

_Neither of us will ever be._ But he didn't say it, couldn't.

Hermione swallowed as he released her, surprised to find she _wasn't _grateful. Surprised to find that she was... disappointed.

Her eyes widened at the shocking realization. _She would have given it all to him. _She _wanted _to. She would have welcomed him into her arms, into her body—here on the hard floor—without a second thought. And somehow she knew she wouldn't think about the past, about her father, about anything other than Draco Malfoy's touch against her skin.

Dear God. This revelation could mean only one thing...

She sat up, watching with entranced eyes as he rigidly went to the bathroom door, pulled it open. He said something to her in a tight, restrained voice, but she didn't hear him, wasn't listening. He slowly vanished into the darkness, closing the door, leaving her behind—but she didn't stop him, didn't call him back. She just stared on in awe, watching long after he was gone. This epiphany had opened a waterfall of thoughts and emotions inside of her… one standing out, swimming and screaming above the rest.

She was hopelessly in love with Draco Malfoy.


	9. An Inconvenient Truth: Part II

_Saving You Summary—DMHG. Hermione Granger has a secret, one that's literally killing her: she has been suffering extreme abuse at the hands of her father. Who will come to her rescue? What if the only one who can is Draco Malfoy? Rated M for sexual content (including rape), suicide ideation, and violence._

_Disclaimer—Most of the characters and a lot of the setting belong to J.K. Rowling. The rest is mine._

A/N: Last updated Feb. 4, 2010.

* * *

**:::An Inconvenient Truth: Part II:::**

Hermione moved slowly down the staircase, her hand wiping dust as it absently slid over the smooth wood of the banister. She didn't notice the dirt beginning to coat her palm. She wasn't aware of the strengthening sound of footsteps from behind her, didn't look up as a group of younger students pushed their way past her, thundering down the stairs. She was far too occupied to notice anything but what was thundering in her mind, far too concerned with her thoughts to care.

The puzzle pieces were falling into place, fitting together, revealing a picture that had her blood thinning, numbing, had her heart growing heavy and slow. It had been there in Hoffman's Journal... in Lucius Malfoy's slanted scrawl. It had been there in the words _Joining _and _First Circle_...

Now she knew what _business _meant. Now she knew what Draco intended to do, what he intended to become. The truth had been before her eyes, written in smooth black ink.

And he hadn't denied it, not really. Not the way she'd needed him to.

Amazingly, there had been no anger. There hadn't even been surprise. The cold reality had slowly sunk in, coating her heart and soul like tar. Maybe a part of her had known all along. Hadn't she seen the secrets behind his steel eyes? Hadn't she seen the hidden look in them, so like her own? There's always more, isn't there? She'd always known that.

_There's always more…_

She couldn't hate him. Even now, she couldn't. And it was so much worse than it had ever been before. Because now she knew she would give him anything, _everything_—whatever he wanted, whatever he asked for. She would give him whatever was in her power to give: her heart, her world... _herself_...

Because now she was in love with him. She was in love with Draco Malfoy. She was in love… with a Death Eater.

"There you are." Ginny Weasley's exasperated voice reached Hermione's ears. She looked up. "I was just coming up to your room to get you," the redhead informed her brightly. "Your overbearing friends were about to throw a fit."

Hermione swallowed a sigh and put on her best impression of a smile. "Sorry," she said softly. She took Ginny's hand and slowly continued down the stairs. "I got a late start. I'm tired this morning for some reason."

"Yeah—some reason," Ginny retorted, her ocean-blue eyes glancing knowingly to the side. "Not to worry," she said after a laughing pause. "I'd be tired, too, if I had boys keeping me up at all odd hours of the night."

Hermione stopped short. "What?" Ginny only looked at her with a quizzical smile. "Oh," she said, shaking her head, swallowing uncomfortably. "You mean Harry and Ron..."

"Of course I mean Harry and Ron. What, you have someone else in your room in the wee hours of the morning?" Ginny laughed. Hermione laughed, too, but the breathless sound came out uneasy and forced.

They began to walk again. "They're in a foul mood today, just to warn you," the blue-eyed girl went on after a few moments. "All this nightmare business is making them sour."

She looked to the side, wanting to see what affect the words might have on her still-fragile friend. Her smile faltered when Hermione failed the test; the girl said nothing, didn't even smile, only kept walking with that old distant look in her eyes.

"Personally, I don't see what all the fuss is about," Ginny forged on, making her voice casual, breezy. "Just because he dreams something doesn't mean it's going to happen. I mean, just the other day he dreamt he was the lead tenor in the opera, and something's telling me _that_ little fantasy is never coming true." She smiled over at the older girl. "Although, I would pay good money to see it if it did." Hermione still said nothing, causing Ginny's fingers to tighten comfortingly around her thinner ones. "Don't let them worry you, Mione," she commanded firmly as they stepped from the final stair. "For all we know, this supposed vision is just the product of Harry's paranoia and overactive imagination."

Hermione swallowed, nodding for Ginny's sake, and for her own. "Yeah. I'm sure you're right."

Ginny's smile widened. "Of course I am. I'm always right."

Hermione smiled and shook her head affectionately. She let Ginny lace their arms together, and didn't complain when she laughingly pulled her into the Great Hall.

"Finally," Ron said resentfully as they neared the Gryffindor table. "What took you?"

"What do you think?" Ginny returned pointedly for Hermione. "She's _tired_, Ron. Meditate for a moment on why that might be."

Ron glared at her as she climbed over the bench and sat beside him. "Bugger off. We were only in her room for a few minutes last night. And I don't hear _her _complaining." His head snapped around to the girl that sat on Harry's other side. "Are you complaining?" he demanded expectantly.

Hermione didn't answer.

Ron's eyes narrowed. "Hermione," he prompted. Still nothing. "Hermione...?"

Her brown eyes finally focused, turned to his. "I'm not complaining," she assured him softly.

The words should have satisfied the rambunctious Ron. Instead, he found his brows furrowing with concern. The Hermione Granger he saw before him was all too familiar. And she was far more frightening than any nightmare Harry could dream up.

Why did she suddenly seem silent, distant? Had the newspaper articles and late night visits already begun to take their toll? The idea had him frowning sullenly. He hoped to God it _was _just that she was tired. Because if she was beginning to break apart again now, at the first sign of trouble, how would she hold up when full-on war was at their doorstep?

"Are you going to eat something?" he asked her quietly after a while, noticing how she kept her hands together on her lap, not so much as reaching to put a single muffin on her empty plate. "Hermione," he said again when she didn't react.

She looked at him, smiled softly. "Of course." She picked up a scone and dutifully began to nibble on it.

Ron watched her for a moment, still not quite satisfied, but finally turned his uneasy gaze to the man between them. Harry's complete focus was on the morning's newspaper, which he held so tightly that the edges crinkled in his hand. He'd been intently scanning the pages since they'd been handed to him minutes before, his eyes poring over the newest article about the dwindling Aurors.

"Are you done with that yet?" Ron asked him, crossing his arms.

With a tight jaw, Harry nodded, folding the thing up and passing it to his friend. "It's pointless, reading these articles again and again," he said under his breath. "It's meaningless until we can figure out just what the hell I saw last night."

Ron shrugged, taking the newspaper and beginning to read it anyway.

Harry turned to Hermione for the first time. "Hey," he said quietly. "How are you this morning?"

"A little tired," she told him. "Stayed up too late, I guess."

Harry smiled apologetically. "Yeah, I'm sorry about that. We shouldn't have dragged you into it, not at that ungodly hour. Probably not at all." He put a hand on her back, wanting to soothe away the worn look in her eyes. "You need your rest," he told her gently. "We weren't thinking."

Hermione shrugged a shoulder. "It wouldn't be right for you to leave me out of it."

"It wouldn't be right to stress you out unnecessarily," Harry countered. His eyes searched hers. "Tell me we didn't..."

"You didn't," she lied, her voice soft and reassuring. "I'm fine."

Harry nodded, but he wasn't sure he believed her.

His hand dropped from its place on her back. He watched as she took another halfhearted bite of her scone. "You didn't happen to find that book you were telling us about, did you," he asked her after a while. "The Journal," he supplied when she didn't answer.

Hermione didn't—couldn't—meet his gaze. "Um, yeah," she replied, restlessly tucking one wild ringlet behind her ear. "I... didn't find anything helpful."

Harry smiled cynically. "Another dead end." He noticed the way Hermione's lashes lowered, and forced himself to smile, to relax. "Well, thanks anyway for trying," he said, trying to sound upbeat.

Hermione nodded, guilt twisting with uncertainty inside of her. Her weary gaze drifted to the table across the room, finding Draco, watching him warily. Where did her loyalties lie? Suddenly she wasn't sure. She was conflicted, confused—by him, whoever he was, by who he planned to be; by herself, by her inability to turn away despite all she knew... by her willingness to betray her friends, her protectors, for a man who may or may not care about her... a Death Eater who may or may not hurt her—hurt them all—in the end.

Draco must have sensed her watching him, because his silver eyes came up, connected with hers. The intensity there was blinding, haunting, the look inside the metallic depths as bitter as it was longing.

"What the bloody hell. Why is that _smarmy git_ staring at us?" Ron spat from off to the side.

Hermione quickly averted her eyes, but she was sure Draco wouldn't do the same. No, he would stare them down, superior and unafraid, the corners of his lips cocked up in that sarcastic smile he put on every time he perceived a threat.

"That smug bastard has _some gall_," Ron fumed quietly, "smirking at us that way. I'd like to go over there and rearrange his face!"

"I'm sure that would go over splendidly," Ginny commented mildly, sipping on her orange juice.

"It would for one of us," Ron agreed hotly. "God, I want to bash his mouth in—wipe that stupid sarcastic grin off his pasty face."

"He's laughing at us," Harry realized, his eyes watching Malfoy's sparkling grey ones. His hands balled into fists and his teeth clenched tight. "He's having a gay old time knowing how miserable we are because of all of this."

Hermione stared at the half-eaten scone on her plate, her whole body feeling as heavy as her heart.

"I can't even look at him without gritting my teeth," Harry went on. "I just have this feeling..."

"Feeling?" Ginny asked, eyebrow raised.

Harry shook his head, his eyes narrowing on Malfoy's. "That he has all the answers we're looking for," he stated quietly. "That he knows about the missing Aurors. That he knows _everything_—where Voldemort is, what he's planning." He spoke through his teeth, his jaw tight. "He's probably known all along."

"Probably," Ginny supplied, forcing a shrug. "And he's probably not the only one. That whole table is stocked with little Death Eaters in the making." She regarded the Slytherins across the room, her nose wrinkling up in distaste.

"Not like him," Harry told her certainly, his eyes slitting as Malfoy raised a haughty brow at him. "He's different. I've seen it."

Hermione pushed herself up from the bench, suddenly needing to be away from the conversation, away from the truth.

"Where are you going?" Harry asked, breaking his gaze with his nemesis to frown up at his friend.

"I have some things I need to do before class," she told him, not meeting his gaze. "Library books to return and such." She began to walk away before anyone could stop her.

"You can do that later, before the quidditch match," Ron tried to call. "Come back—you've barely eaten."

Hermione ignored the words. "I'll meet you in Potions," she said over her shoulder, but her voice was an absent whisper, barely heard.

Her three friends watched her disappear, each one wearing a troubled frown. But it was only Harry who thought to look back across the room, to the place where Draco Malfoy sat supreme at his House table.

Was it talk of the uncertain future that suddenly had Hermione so weary, so silent? Or was it Malfoy's certain place in it?

He took another bite of his blueberry muffin with a frown.

Hermione's new impartiality towards their nemesis was understandable enough; for all his past wrongs, he _had _saved her life. But Harry wasn't about to encourage her budding belief in the Slytherin Prince. He knew what Draco Malfoy really was, had seen it in his dreams—knew _definitively_ that her faith in him was unfounded and undeserved.

He would always be grateful for what Malfoy had done for her, for them all. But it didn't excuse the transgressions he had committed—or the transgressions he was bound to commit in the future. Harry knew better than to think a single act of human decency could change someone like Malfoy into a decent man...

Even wrongdoers could do right every once in a while. Even bad people could do good things every now and again.

* * *

Hermione couldn't escape for very long. Potions class came only minutes later, where she had to face not only her friends, but also the target of their spiteful glances—the recipient of her own uncertain ones.

The classroom was bustling with quiet chatter, everyone off in their assigned pairs, some arguing over who would get to do what, others laughing with one another as they concocted their potions. Draco and Hermione, however, worked in silence. The air around them was rife with tension, thick with all the words left unsaid, tainted by all the doubts—and all of the certainties. They didn't look at each other, didn't so much as glance. Instead, they worked on their own, one stirring the brew slowly as the other added ingredients into the pot.

"You're quiet," Draco observed grimly after a while of silence.

"You are too," she answered softly.

He continued to stir the thickening liquid in the cauldron. "I don't have anything to say," he told her.

Hermione smiled at that. "Don't you?" she said tiredly. She hesitantly glanced up, the humorless smile slipping. There was a pause. "What about last night?" she finally dared to ask.

His jaw worked. He didn't meet her gaze. "What about it?"

Hermione shrugged one shoulder weakly. "You don't have anything to say about that?" she asked.

"Which part?"

"Every part."

Draco glanced over one shoulder and then the other, conscious of prying ears and eyes. When he spoke again, his voice was lower, tighter, coming out through gritted teeth. "You said you weren't asking for an explanation," he reminded her stiffly.

Hermione watched his hand stir the wooden spoon around the cauldron. "Yes," she whispered sadly. "I did say that."

Silence fell again. Hermione swallowed self-consciously, fingering the small yellow petals of the cut flowers that rested on the table. "I couldn't fall back to sleep last night," she told him after a while, the words almost soundless, more breath of air than voice. "You left me alone." She glanced his way briefly, just long enough to see his grip tighten around the spoon's wooden stem. "You rushed out with barely a goodnight."

Draco went completely still. It was a long time before he spoke. "My body isn't used to starting something it can't finish," he explained quietly, the tone of his voice tense, restrained. "I needed to put space between us. I wouldn't have been able to hold you. Not calmly. Not innocently." He looked at her, his silver eyes heating as they ran along her profile. "Not without doing something I'd regret."

Hermione's gaze went up to his. "Regret," she repeated with a wary smile. She looked back down to fiddle with the flowers. "So... you would regret it," she stated, the words a solemn blend, half question, half statement.

Draco watched her for another moment before forcing himself to harden. "Yes," he answered firmly, forcing his eyes back to the cauldron. "I'd have to," he added, almost hauntedly, almost to himself.

Hermione looked at him, not sure she understood. Not sure she didn't.

Draco must have felt her searching gaze, because his jaw clenched tight as he began to stir the potion again. "Hand me the roseroot," he commanded, his voice stoic, bordering on cold.

Hermione did as he asked, passing the pretty yellow flowers without a word, without a glance. They worked that way for the rest of the period—tense, silent, and completely unsatisfied.

* * *

The Gryffindors' spirits were high as they stampeded across the school grounds to the quidditch stadium below. After watching last week's match, Slytherin versus Ravenclaw, the team of red and gold was anxious for its turn on the pitch. They were walking in a line, like soldiers ready for war, their whole house moving in mass behind them. This particular battle was one of sure victory: Hufflepuff had ranked last in the preseason scrimmages, and by the looks of their practice runs, they hadn't improved much since then.

They reached the arena, which was already bubbling over with excitement. Hufflepuff madness had overtaken the crowd. The entire place was colored yellow and black, it seemed, and badger posters and banners were waving all around.

"Bloody hell!" someone exclaimed, frowning. "You'd think it was bloody Hufflepuff Day or something."

"They always want the underdog," someone else said in disgust.

The Gryffindors separated at the entrance, the team moving down into the backs and its loyal supporters climbing the wooden steps to the seating above. The Hufflepuff team was waiting at the bounds, standing awkward and silent, not seeming half as optimistic as their fans.

"Conner." Harry nodded to the rival captain.

"Harry," the boy acknowledged stiffly.

Ginny ran in then, skidding to a stop just before she could collide with her brother.

"You're late," he scolded as she tied her orange hair into a ponytail.

"So sue me."

Harry looked out into the stadium to the spectators above. "Where's Hermione sitting? I don't see her," he said as his eyes scanned the crowd.

Ginny sighed. "That's probably because she's in the library," she said casually, brushing the arm of her quidditch robe.

That had both boys turning sharply. "What do you _mean_ she's in the library?" Ron asked belligerently. "You were supposed to _bring_ her _with_ you."

Ginny met her brother's tone with a flippant look. "If she wants to be _productive_ and do her homework instead of dragging herself all the way over here just to watch you two idiots play quidditch, then who am I to argue?"

"You mean she's _not coming_? Not at all?" Ron looked to the sky impatiently. "All you had to do was make sure she got to the stadium, Ginny. That's _all _you had to do!"

Ginny held one hand up defensively. "Hey—I tried. But I can't _force _her to go where she doesn't feel like going." She flung a sarcastic smile his way. "I'm not_ you_," she added, her voice painfully sweet.

Ron let out a sound of frustration. "Brilliant. Just bloody brilliant. My sister's a bloody humanitarian all of a sudden."

"What do you want me to say? I told you I _tried_." Ginny rolled her blue eyes. "Exactly how late did you want me to be?"

Harry sighed and put a hand up to stop the noise. "Calm down, both of you." He turned to Ron. "Especially you," he added warningly. "You know Hermione—her schoolwork always comes first." He shook his head, trying to rid himself of the worry—trying to rid him of the feeling that it wasn't schoolwork keeping her away at all. "She's probably better off where it's quiet and calm, anyway."

"Probably means _possibly_—which means possibly _not_," Ron shot back, glaring at his sister. "The only way we'd know for sure is if _someone_ had brought her here like they promised."

"God, she's not a child, Ron! She doesn't need you to protect her every minute of every day!"

"You saw her this morning," Ron said back. "Her eyes were distant. She barely ate, barely spoke. _Remind_ you of anything, Ginevra?" he spat. "What, all of a sudden _caring_ is a crime?" he demanded hotly. "I won't apologize for wanting to keep her where I can see her. I've seen what she lets herself become when I don't!"

"Ron—" Harry tried to cut in, conscious of the attention they were drawing, but Ginny was already stepping forward, her blue eyes dark and narrowed into slits.

"Don't you for one minute try to say that I don't care," she said dangerously. "All the endless hours I spent trying to coax her into eating or trick her into smiling—while you and Harry were busy studying your newspapers and connecting your precious dots. All the nights I stayed up with her, watching as she sat as still as a statue from sundown to sunrise, not saying a word, not so much as blinking an eye—_I _was the one trying to get her to sleep. _I_ was the one trying to take care of her, trying to fix things, never once knowing what was even wrong!" She shook her head in disgust, the gleam of unshed tears shining in her ocean eyes. "So don't talk to me about what she lets herself become. I lived it _every bit_ as much as you did." Her fingers gripped her broomstick so tightly that her knuckles were white. "Forgive me if I don't want to repeat my past mistakes by smothering her to death all over again."

Harry stepped between the two, placing a calming hand on Ginny's shoulder. "Let's settle down," he commanded gently. "We're on the same side here. We _all_ care about Hermione. We all do what we think is best." He looked to Ron. "I'm sure she'll be fine in the library," he reassured him—reassured himself. "For right now, let's all just focus on the game."

On cue, the echo of Sam Blotty's voice sounded.

"_Welcome, welcome, _welcome_. It's your announcer, Sam Blotty, here, and beside me again is our own Div Prescott. So, tell us about today's competitors, Div."_

Div Prescott's voice was amplified up over the stadium and echoing down to the pitch below, making every player alert. Harry's eyes turned to Ron's ocean blue ones, then to Ginny's, and then out to the stands. In a matter of moments, they would be up in the air, fighting and flying in an effort to get to that championship spot that every Hogwarts student craved.

And all he, the captain of the team, could think about was his dark-eyed friend in the castle above.

"_And look—Hufflepuff is being led onto the field by Captain and Keeper, Conner Kinney."_

Harry shook his head and tried to realign his focus. There was no need to worry. Hermione was safe. She would be fine. The library was a sanctuary. It was quiet there, completely secure.

"_Madam Hooch is waiting at the center of the pitch. The only question now is where is Harry Potter and his golden Gryffindor team?"_

Harry's eyes met Ginny's, then Ron's. "Ready?" he asked, swallowing down his discontent about Hermione, watching both of them do the same. He nodded when they said nothing and stepped out onto the field, not bothering to smile up into the stands.

* * *

Hermione sat in the library, trying desperately to distract herself. Reading had always been an easy escape, the only healthy one she'd ever known. Getting lost in a story, in another world, made it easy to forget her own reality. For just a while, she could forget her cold, empty life and travel off to the fantasyland of fiction, the recollection of history, the complex world of magic. She could leave her secrets behind and fly off to a place where they didn't matter anymore, a place where they didn't exist... a place where there was no such thing as lies—and no such person as Hermione Granger.

Unfortunately, she was finding more and more that the convenient time warp of a book had lost its ability to transport her. Instead of floating off to another plane, another world, she found herself stuck here in reality, reading the same damn sentence again and again.

Minutes had come and gone since Ginny had been by to bring her to the match. It had taken some convincing, but she had finally persuaded her friend to leave her behind.

Harry and Ron would probably be upset that she hadn't tagged along as expected. They would probably be worried and wondering where she was...

Maybe she should have gone. Maybe it would have kept her mind off of things.

"Hey, Hermione." A warm voice intruded on her thoughts. She was a little annoyed and a little relieved when Brandon Madison pulled a chair out from the table and sat down beside her. "Haven't seen you around that much these past few days," he said with a charming smile.

Hermione tapped her fingers lightly against the tabletop and tried to smile back. The universe was providing her with the perfect distraction. She could stop—or at least _try_ to stop—thinking about the other man in her life, the unreadable, unpredictable one with the white-blond hair and the haunting silver eyes.

Hermione opened her mouth to reply, but the words were halted when Brandon slid his chair closer to hers in a small but noticeable move. She kept her smile in place, but the shift made her uneasy. Perhaps things weren't as simple as they'd initially appeared to be. She had counted on Brandon to be the uncomplicated one, the comfortable one. There had been no pressure, no demands. Now, all of a sudden, she could feel his expectations rising. Like everything else about him, it was gentle, calm, slow—but it was there in all the little things he did: offering to carry her books, asking for a good luck charm, scooting his chair closer to hers. She had liked the casual connection of before. But he was trying to turn up the heat now, trying to stake his claim. He didn't know that it was impossible for her to feel anything more than friendship for him—that it was suddenly a struggle to feel even that.

"Um..." She shook her head, clearing her thoughts. "Yeah, I'm usually hidden behind Harry and Ron. They've had me glued to their side since…" She looked down. "Since the accident."

Concern washed over his face, gentle but real. "How have you been feeling? Better?" he asked.

Hermione nodded. "I've almost forgotten it ever happened," she lied.

"Good." Suddenly, she felt his warm hand cover hers, pressing it lightly into the tabletop. "I'm so glad."

Hermione opened her mouth to speak, but was succinctly cut off.

"Well isn't _this_ a pretty picture?" someone interrupted before she had a chance to so much as withdraw her hand. "My, my, my, aren't the two of you just _darling_." Draco's voice was a quiet snarl from across the table, the sugary words bitter and cold.

Brandon skeptically met the intruder's hard eyes—surprised to find possessiveness there. It was the same look that had been there the week before, that unspoken threat that had passed between them on the pitch. Could it be that _this _was what that quidditch match had really been about? Could it be that Malfoy secretly had feelings... for Hermione Granger?

Well, if he thought that Brandon could just be scared off or shoved aside, he was in for a very rude awakening. The Slytherin Prince may have had power over the Dungeon, the classroom, and even the quidditch field, but Hermione Granger was _far_ outside of his jurisdiction.

And Brandon Madison wasn't afraid to prove it.

"Malfoy," he acknowledged casually enough. "Is there something we can do for you?"

"Nope," Draco said, popping the 'p', but he pulled out a chair and sat across from Hermione anyway.

Hermione raised a brow, bemused by the childish scene unraveling before her. Draco was smiling coldly, first at her, then at Brandon. The look would have easily intimidated any other person, but Madison seemed up for the challenge.

"Really," Brandon asked, one provoking brow raised. "Because if you wanted to talk to Hermione, all you had to do was ask." His fingers visibly tightened around hers, a move that caused Draco's eyes to slit. The words signaled ownership—a fact that had Hermione surprised.

A fact that had Draco furious.

"I don't need to ask you for anything, Madison." His voice was low, _dangerously_ low, and if looks could kill, Brandon would have been murdered on the spot. "You would do best to remember that," he warned.

Unfazed, Brandon smiled. "We'll see about that, come Halloween. I'm the one Hermione will be with," he told the other man. "You would do best to remember that."

Madison's smart-alack response, the possession in his voice, caused something inside of Draco to snap. He was out of his seat in an instant, pushing the table, knocking the chair to the ground. He got hold of Brandon, hauling him up by his robes with one powerful hand, dragging him close, his wand stabbing threateningly into the man's stomach with the other.

"_I_ am not one to be crossed with," he warned dangerously, pressing the tip harder into the other boy's abdomen. "You would do _best_ to remember _that_."

Whispers and gasps sounded around the library, eyes wide and on the two men. The room was still, everyone watching, interested, horrified, wondering what had caused the fight.

"What in _heaven's _name is going on in here?" Professor McGonagall rushed forward. "Mr. Malfoy, release him _at once_!" Draco's jaw clenched. "_Now!_" He let Brandon go, but they continued to stare each other down, all anger and arrogance. "Fifteen points from each of your houses!" The professor shook her head at Draco. "You should be ashamed," she told him. "Head Boy should know better."

McGonagall glanced at Hermione, who was observing the scene, mystified. "Return to your dormitories immediately," the professor ordered, turning her gaze back to the boys. They continued to glare at each other. "_Now_, the both of you!"

Brandon was the first to break their gazes. He turned to Hermione with an apologetic look. "I'm sorry, Mione," he told her quietly. The use of the nickname had Draco's eyes lighting with fury. "We'll talk later." She forced a smile, nodded. He nodded too, and with one final territorial look at Draco, exited the room. McGonagall followed right behind him, stopping to share a few brief words with Madam Pince.

Draco was pulling Hermione up from her chair just as the professor disappeared from sight. "Follow me," he commanded menacingly before storming out of the library.

Hermione warily looked around the room, more than aware of the curious eyes that were on her. With a calm breath, she pulled the strap of her bag over her shoulder and slowly followed behind. She watched, sighing as he made his way into a nearby empty classroom, slamming the door shut. She smiled at the ceiling, shaking her head before twisting the doorknob and entering the room after him.

"You didn't need to slam the door," she said mildly, closing it gently behind her. "And you didn't need to make a scene."

"Embarrassed you in front of your little boyfriend, did I? Cry me afucking river," Draco spat, his words dripping with a mix of ferocity and sarcasm.

Hermione didn't react with anger the way he'd wanted her to. She just sent him a quizzical look. "You know he's not my boyfriend. Why are you acting this way?"

"Why are _you _gallivanting around with that _nancyboy, _always kissing his cheek and holding his hand?" he returned.

"Because he's my friend," she answered calmly. "And I'd hardly call it _gallivanting_. We've barely spoken to each other at all."

"Well, you're going to the dance with him, aren't you?" he pressed, his voice raising.

"Yes," she said patiently, her lips quirking up into a curious smile. "And you're going with Pansy," she reminded him. "Remember?"

Draco wouldn't let her change the focus. "You _like _him—I can tell," he accused. "You like it when he comes around."

She nodded. The affirmation had his jaw visibly clenching. "We've been friends for a long time. You know that." He said nothing, but she saw his hands fist. "Really, Malfoy, this is silly," she said quietly. "I don't need to justify myself to you. And out of the two of us, I'm the last one that should have to explain…"

Draco stiffened at the words, the truth of them stunning him into silence. She was right, of course. She had shared all her secrets with him. And his turn to do the same had come and gone, disregarded, wasted by a decision someone else had made for him long ago.

_Why is it we don't have a choice?_

"Don't try to change the subject," he barked, not letting himself be distracted by guilt. "That's not what we're talking about."

Hermione took a deep breath. "What _are _we talking about?" she asked. "Because you're acting like a madman, and I can't for the life of me understand why." She tilted her head. "So… why?"

Draco's entire body was tense. His metallic eyes fell to the diamond at her heart. It glinted in the light, the sparkle standing out in the stuffy room. He took a breath, looked away. It was a long time before he spoke.

"You call him Brandon," he explained finally with a heavy shrug.

Hermione waited a moment. "Well, that's his name," she answered slowly, trying to understand. "It's what I've always done."

Draco nodded, laughed bitterly. "And you call me _Malfoy_."

Hermione's eyes narrowed speculatively. "It's what I've always done," she said again. And then a tiny smile began to edge its way onto her face. "Is… is that what all this is about?" she asked quietly. She looked to the ceiling, a breathless laugh escaping her. "You're _jealous_?"

Draco's head snapped up at that. "Jealous—of _Madison_? That's a laugh." His voice was as unsteady as it was angry.

Hermione swallowed her laughter. "Is it? Well, I must be mistaken, then," she said mildly. "So, just to be clear, you _don't_ mind my gallivanting around with him?"

His jaw clenched. "No," he answered finally. "I don't."

"Really," she stated dryly, her voice sounding more interested than upset.

He waited a beat, then confirmed it with a stiff nod.

Hermione shrugged. "Brilliant," she said, and then turned abruptly. "You won't care if I go looking for him now, then," she threw over her shoulder as she headed for the door.

"Wait." His voice stopped her just as reached for the doorknob.

She looked back. "Yes?"

Draco stepped closer. There was a pause. "I'm not going to explain myself to you," he began angrily.

Hermione rolled her eyes. "What a shock." She turned to leave, but he grabbed her back.

"Don't."

Hermione's jaw set. _Don't_… The word had her temper flaring, _really_ flaring, for the first time. It was a royal command when it should have been a pauper's plea. And it was a challenge, one she couldn't shy away from, not if she was ever going to find a way past the armor to the man beneath. If she couldn't get him to admit this one shallow emotion, how could she ever get him to confess the rest? How would she get him to share _himself_?

She would show him now that she wasn't the fragile flower to be controlled, or even protected. She would prove to him that she could dig up the truth just as well as he could.

Hermione stood to her tiptoes, closing her eyes as she gently laid her lips against his chin. His eyes widened, surprised, before slowly closing as the promise of ecstasy washed through him. Her mouth moved… slowly across his jaw… then up his cheek… down his neck, lightly playing against his skin.

"Tell me you were jealous." Her voice was breathy and smooth as velvet against his ear.

"I wasn't," he insisted, though his voice held none of the anger it had only moments ago. Instead, it was quiet, almost pained. Hermione smiled. Already, she had knocked him down a peg.

"You're lying," she whispered against his mouth, before closing her lips over his. They kissed passionately, and for the first time, Hermione was the aggressor. For the first time, she was driving, and Draco was along for the ride.

The lack of control was as sweet as it was unsettling. Sweet, because Hermione's hot mouth on his was soft in its strength, making him ache with need; unsettling because no woman had ever brought him to his knees with just a kiss.

Hermione had to hear him say it. She was tired of all the silence, all the secrets, all the questions left unanswered. She was tired of it being complicated. Why couldn't he just admit it? Why, when it was the truth?

"Tell me you were jealous," she said again. Her mouth left his to travel down his neck, opening against his throat. Her hand moved from its place around his neck, brushing down his chest to his abdomen.

"No," he said, his voice a quiet groan.

The sound made Hermione brave, braver than she'd ever been before. She eased her hand downward, delicately touching Draco's powerful erection over his pants.

"What—" He swallowed. "What are you doing?" His voice was unsteady, and his eyes were bright with desire. His hands were clenched into fists at his side. Touching her would be a mistake. He would lose control if he touched her.

"I'm making you tell me," she answered, her mouth close to his mouth, her eyes on his eyes. She rubbed her hand against him, evoking another groan.

"There's nothing to tell," he persisted, but his voice was shaking with pleasure, with fear. He wouldn't say it. She couldn't force it out of him. "There's nothing..."

"_Liar_," she accused, her voice husky. "Stop pretending." Her shaking fingers sought the zipper, found it, slowly drew it down. "Stop hiding."

Draco gasped, groaned. Was this really happening? Was his innocent angel really touching him this way, tempting him this way? Could it really be possible?

"Tell me," she commanded, brushing her fingers briefly against his rigid shaft. He moaned at the tease, his mind going blank.

"No. Stop this." His words were a refusal, but his voice was an invitation.

"Just say the words," she insisted easily, opening her mouth on his neck, brushing her fingers against him again. She couldn't believe she was doing these things, couldn't believe she was doing them to _him_. The tentative schoolgirl had somehow vanished, and in her place was someone else, someone new. In her place was a _woman_, wanton and sure and totally in control.

Hermione had never felt so alive.

Draco was on fire, lost in the hot liquid flames of desire. He couldn't think, not rational thoughts. His mind was filled with her, with her scent, with her voice, with the feel of her skin on his. He'd never wanted like this, needed like this—like he had to have her or die. He had to touch her, her skin, her body. He had to feel her against him, had to—

"Three simple words," she coaxed, gripping his cock fully now, sliding her hand up and down. Her breathing was as labored as his. "_I was jealous. _That's all you have to say."

Draco's fists clenched harder and his head fell back. He tried to think of all the reasons why he shouldn't touch her, take her, but they were melting away in his mind. He was losing the battle.

Or was he winning?

He would touch her soon if she didn't end this. And if he touched her, he wasn't at all sure he could stop. Ever.

"Just tell me the truth," her voice begged silkily. "Please. Just tell me…" Her chocolate eyes looked up through dark lashes, locking with his silver ones. "Tell me, Draco."

He heard his name on her lips, saw her sultry eyes, felt her hands working magic on him, gripping him, holding him—and he snapped. His arms wrapped around her, holding her tightly, and he couldn't stop himself from rocking against her. "I was jealous," he conceded desperately, his mouth traveling down her throat, up her jaw, over her mouth. "I was jealous, _am _jealous—of anyone who talks to you, of anyone who sits too close to you. I'm half-mad with the thought of that _wanker _putting his hands on you, touching you, holding you when I can't."

"You can," she breathed, dizzy with want. "You are."

Moments ago, she had been the one in control. But, oh, how fast things had been reversed. She felt her body being pressed up against the wall, and wondered when and how he had backed her against it. Every inch of him was pressing hard against every inch of her, and she was hot with the feeling. His mouth was everywhere at once, and she let her head fall back against the wall, her eyes closed with the pleasure of it.

"You're driving me mad! Oh, God, I'm _mad_!" Draco needed release, had never needed it as badly as now. It would be so easy to draw her skirt up, to pull aside whatever she had on underneath and take her here and now against the wall. A simple shift would join them together. Just a single swift movement and he would be all the way inside. Just one little stroke was all it would take.

Draco's mind was at war with every other part of his body. The voice of reason was fading fast, and he could barely hold on to what it was saying. Hermione was kissing him, kissing him hard, and rubbing herself against him, drowning out every rational thought inside his head.

"We have to…" he groaned at the feel of her hand against him. "We have to stop."

"No." Hermione dragged his mouth back to hers.

He sank into kiss, letting it go on and on and on. She was pushing against him, her body begging his to take it, to take it _all_. The threat was all too real. He pulled back again, breathing hard. "No, Hermione," he insisted. "We can't do this. Not here. Not now."

Not ever.

He held her shoulders, pinning her harder against the wall, separating their bodies. Moments went by, heavy with tension. After a few calming minutes passed, Draco stepped back a pace. He moved away from her, turned his back, carefully zipping his pants back up, gathering his thoughts, himself.

There was silence, static. It was a long time before he was calm enough to turn back around.

"What," he asked quietly, finally, "was that?" His voice was laced with disapproval, and his silver eyes burned into hers.

Hermione swallowed, blushed. "That was me proving a point," she whispered, her breath still unsteady.

Draco gritted his teeth. "Proving a point," he repeated stiffly. He shook his head, bitter. "Well, I hope you're satisfied."

Hermione looked down. "I'm not," she whispered, the remnants of desire still clinging to her voice.

He turned away again. There was another long pause. "We should go out separately," he told her after a while, his voice toneless, his eyes alert. "It will look suspicious otherwise."

Hermione said nothing. He was irritated, she could see, though she wasn't sure why. A wave of self-consciousness ran through her, giving her chills. Did he disapprove of her wanton behavior? Was he disappointed in her lack of skill?

Cool reserve had fallen over Draco. The heady moments of passion were easing away, and cold reality was setting in once again. He was furious—furious with her, furious with himself. He had almost taken her against a wall in some dusty spare classroom—like an animal, like a whore off the street.

And she had almost let him.

It had been close, _too_ close. Just the swiftest of movements and she would have been his. And there were a thousand reasons why he couldn't let that happen. For her sake, for his own, she could never belong to him.

How dare she seduce him into tempting Fate?

How dare he let himself be seduced...

"You go first," he instructed coldly when she didn't move. "I'll wait a few minutes and go after."

Hermione nodded. She felt his biting tone all the way to her heart. Turning, she walked the few paces to the exit.

"And fix your blouse before you go," he added before she could reach the door. His eyes were distant, his voice bordering on condescending.

Hermione looked down at herself. Her school shirt was wrinkled, and somehow one button had come undone. Her red tie was loosened at her neck and dangled slackly from underneath her collar. Silently, she righted her clothes, not daring to meet his piercing gaze. When she was done, she reached for the doorknob and pulled the door open, leaving just enough space for her to squeeze through.

And then she paused, looking back to Draco's hard silver eyes. "Brandon and I are only friends," she assured him, her voice a whisper that sliced through the silence. "That's all we'll ever be."

His eyes, like ice, didn't warm a bit. Hermione smiled softly, sadly, and shrugged one shoulder. She didn't say more. What was the point of explaining? He wasn't even listening. He didn't even care.

Draco stared at the door until long after she disappeared behind it. More than anything, he felt the regret.

He had been cruel. It had been his only defense.

* * *

Hermione walked slowly, not at all sure where she was headed. In a matter of moments, she'd gone from hot to cold, from confident to unsure. Those minutes of reckless passion now seemed as if they had been from a dream, like it had been an excerpt from someone else's life, cut out and pasted into her own. She was shocked at her own daring. Something had overtaken her back there, something strong. She had been drunk on pleasure, on power. It had made her temporarily invincible.

Now all that had quickly faded, bowing away in submission as the commanding force of his cool pride had returned. She sighed, trying not to let herself be confused. Was this evidence that there was a difference between _Draco _and _Malfoy_, after all? Or was this proof that they were one in the same?

Hermione walked and walked until she found herself in front of the Fat Lady Portrait. She waited a moment and then gave the password. The lady flashed a concerned smile, swinging the canvas open and letting her in.

It was painfully loud in the Gryffindor common room. The relaxed air that normally filled the room was clogged up now, misted with the excitement of celebration. The place was overrun with people slapping each other's hands and giving each other hugs. The quidditch match was obviously over, and it seemed that the team of red and gold had come out victorious.

Hermione moved to the couch, sat silently, staring into the fireless hearth. She only half-listened as the details of the game were relayed again and again. She sat unmoving as the room filled to the brim with people giving their congratulations and wanting to join in on the fun.

"Hermione." She heard her name over the noise, but it didn't register at first. "Hermione!_" _Harry lowered himself onto the couch beside his friend, frowning. She had that look again, that look he'd given up for dead, that look he'd been well rid of. He placed a gentle hand on her back, his emerald gaze concerned. She looked at him with tired eyes, tried to smile. "You weren't at the match," he said carefully.

"I was in the library. Reading." She lowered her eyes. "I just needed some time to myself." Harry said nothing, only watched her with furrowed brows. "But I heard you won..." she went on dutifully. "What was the score?"

"260 to 10," he told her. "Quick and painless."

A small smile spread. "Painless for you, anyway."

Harry smiled, too, though it didn't reach his eyes. "Yeah."

Someone was calling his name from across the room, trying to congratulate him, but he ignored it. Instead, his whole focus was on his friend. She looked drained, as if she'd run for miles and could barely hold up.

"Are you okay?" he asked her seriously, rubbing her back. "Did something happen?"

Hermione shook her head. She didn't answer, not right away. When she did speak, her voice was quiet, wistful, and there was a kind of amused smile on her face. It was cold amusement.

"I thought that I was all better," she admitted in a whisper. "A wave of the magic wand and suddenly I'm cured." Her gaze drifted back to Harry's. "Only, I'm not," she confessed, shrugging weakly. "I guess it's not that simple."

Harry's arm went around her shoulder. "Nothing is ever that simple," he said.

She smiled sadly, nodded. "I just miss the way I used to be," she told him. _Bright... strong. Unbreakable._ "I don't know if I'll ever be that Hermione again."

Harry's brows furrowed, and he pulled her closer to his side. "Don't worry. She's still in there," he assured her. "I've been seeing her more and more every day."

Hermione nodded, but inside she wasn't as sure. In the last hour alone she had experienced a rollercoaster ride of incredible highs and numbing lows. She'd been kidding herself before, to think she had any real power over Draco. How could she, when she didn't have any over herself?

She felt cold suddenly, as if the air had lowered a few degrees. "The fifth bed in your room is still empty, isn't it?" she asked.

"Yeah." A line appeared between his eyebrows. "Why?"

"Can I stay over with you guys… just for tonight?" She hugged herself, rubbing warmth into her upper arms.

"Of course." Harry's gaze narrowed. "Is there something wrong? Something in your dormitory?"

Or some_one_? He didn't voice it.

Hermione only smiled, the lift of lips sad. "I don't want to go back there," was all she told him. _I can't face _him. _I can't face his rejection. _"I just want to be with you..."

He didn't press her, though he sensed that there was more. He just nodded, letting his chin rest on her head as it fell against his shoulder. They sat that way for a while, letting the celebration rage around them. Harry knew Hermione well enough to know she didn't rely on anyone. Something had pushed her into his arms—something, or some_one_. Could it be the other inhabitant of the Head Dormitory? Could something have happened between them? A fight perhaps? He wasn't sure.

All he knew for certain was that he was grateful to have her in his arms… grateful that, for once, she actually _wanted_ his protection.

* * *

Where the _hell_ was Hermione?

Draco's jaw clenched, anger and uncertainty blending together. He had been more than calm after their little incident in the classroom. In fact, he'd been as serene as a statue—and as cold as one, too. He had been irate before, at himself, at her. He'd wanted her away so that they could cool off—or, technically, so that _he_ could. But he found he was furious that she'd done as he'd commanded. Just who the _hell _did she think she was, weaving this spell of pleasure around him and then vanishing? Ignore the fact that he'd all but thrown her out of the room—did she really think she could just disappear? Did she think that running away would erase what had happened? Did she think it would make him forget?

Pansy was waiting for him at the entrance to the Great Hall, her lips curving into her trademark pout. "I feel like I haven't seen you in _forever_," she sighed, linking arms with him. "Where have you been hiding?"

"Nowhere," he said absently, his gaze immediately falling to the Gryffindor table, searching for the flash of gold-brown eyes. His vision scanned from head to head, hunting for the familiar gleam of chocolate curls. He froze in place when he didn't find her right away, dragging Pansy to a stop along with him. His eyes narrowed, searching harder.

"What are you looking for?" she asked petulantly.

Draco didn't answer her. Where the hell was Hermione? His gaze intensified, scanning down the table, then up, then down again.

Pansy's eyes followed his line of sight, before rolling in annoyance. "I don't _see_ anything."

Draco's jaw set. Neither did he. Hermione wasn't there, he realized, masking his dismay immediately. She hadn't come to dinner. And her little watchdogs, Weasley and Potter, were inexplicably missing, as well.

"You seem tense, darling," Pansy was crooning, noticing the way his jaw locked. "Is something going on that you're not telling me about?" Draco didn't respond. He didn't even look at her. "Does it have to do with…" she looked around, lowered her voice… "with _business_?"

He smiled humorlessly. He hated that it _did _have to do with business, hated that in the course of a single visit home, _business_ was what Hermione had become. God, he had almost let himself forget about his Task, had almost let himself forget that it was _her_.

"What's with you tonight?" Pansy asked, her sloe-eyes narrowing. "You seem distracted."

To her chagrin, Draco extracted his arm from her grasp. Then, without an explanation, or even a word, he began to back away.

Pansy's brows furrowed into a frown. "Where are you going?" she asked, just as he turned his back to her. His strides lengthened, and he was gone before she knew what had happened. "But what about _dinner_?" she called after him, just as he disappeared from sight. "Goodbye to you, too," she muttered, watching the empty archway.

Sighing, she pasted on a smile and headed to where her friends sat waiting. She would belong to Draco Malfoy soon enough. And once she had his ring was around her finger, _he_ would belong to her… exclusively.

She sat herself in the middle of the group and immediately immersed herself in the gossip. She didn't see the pair of cool dark eyes as they roamed from the tall entrance where Draco had just been to the Gryffindor table across the room. She didn't see the black eyebrow that arched cynically in observation.

There was no Draco Malfoy… and no Hermione Granger.

* * *

"And the look on your face was absolutely _priceless_!"

"You're one to talk!" Ron glared at Harry, but his blue eyes were filled with laughter. "If it wasn't for you, we wouldn't have even _been_ in that situation!" He crossed his arms, unable to keep a smile from breaking free. "I swear to God, if Snape had found us I would have kicked the living daylight out of you!"

The three were sitting in the boys' room, forming a triangle on the carpet between their two beds. The hours had passed, flying by without much warning as they reminisced about the lighthearted adventures of days gone by.

"It was a close call," Harry agreed, emerald eyes bright. "Way too close. I mean, he almost walked right into us!"

"At least the two of you _had_ an invisibility cloak," Hermione threw in with a tired smile. "_I_ had nothing but shadows and a wand."

Ron laughed at that. "That was your own fault! If you hadn't been walking so fast you would have had time to rush under the cloak with us!"

"_No_," Hermione said, drawing the word out. "I would have had time to run under the cloak if _you_ hadn't waited until the very last second to warn me that someone was coming." She sent the boys a speaking glance, and they looked contrite for all of five seconds. And then they were all laughing hysterically, light with the memory of happier times.

The laughter ebbed slowly, easing away until all that was left were the wistful smiles. It was Harry who broke the silence first. "Damn," he exclaimed suddenly, dragging his jacket sleeve over his watch.

"What?"

Harry scratched his neck. "We missed dinner," he informed them.

Hermione shrugged, letting her head fall to Ron's shoulder. "No matter. I wasn't hungry anyway."

Her two friends exchanged a glance, a decision agreed upon immediately. "We'll go to the kitchen and get something from the house elves," Harry told her. Hermione opened her mouth at the thinly veiled attempt at parenting. "Don't argue," he begged smilingly before she could say a word. "For once, just go along with things, okay?"

Hermione looked reluctant, but sat back with a relenting smile. "Fine, fine," she conceded with a sigh. "But don't try to tell me I have to stay here. If you want me to go along then I'm _going along_," she informed them firmly. "If you're going to the kitchen then so am I."

Ron laughed, hugging her closer. "Sounds like an adventure," he said. "Just like old times."

Hermione smiled, her eyes meeting Harry's green ones. "Yeah," she agreed. "Like old times."

Old times… Back when things had been less complicated. Back when the world had made a twisted sort of sense. Back when she'd been sure of who Hermione Granger really was.

And who _Draco Malfoy _really was.

* * *

Draco had gone everywhere. He'd searched up and down, in and out. He'd been from one side of Hogwarts to the other.

Hermione Granger was nowhere to be found.

He'd spent the better part of an hour looking for her. She wasn't at her favorite table in the library, at her favorite bench in the courtyard. She wasn't strolling at the boundary, or sitting by the loch...

He was halfway to the quidditch pitch when he suddenly stopped. This was insane! Impatience and desperation had him going mad! _She _had him going mad. Why was he doing this? He was trumping from one part of the school to the other—and for what?

_For her…_

Draco clapped his hands together, laughing bitterly at his irrational behavior. This was madness! He _knew_ where she was, knew she had to be safe and sound with her perfect little friends in Gryffindor Tower. And still his body was dragging him every which way, wanting so badly to see her face, to hear her voice, carrying him in every direction in a desperate, illogical search.

Draco shook his head, looked to the sky, laughed. It was dark, starless.

Hermione couldn't hide forever. She would have to return to their dormitory. Sooner or later, she would have to face him.

And when she did, he would never let her know how weak, how _desperate_ she could make him.

Draco turned on his heel and began the hike back to the castle.

* * *

The trio ventured to the kitchen, a place they hadn't visited together in years. Food of all kinds had been presented by the house elves, broiled and baked and everything in between. And when the three had insisted they'd had enough, the house elves had insisted that they have even more. By the end, each one of them had gorged themselves into near-sickness. But instead of returning to Gryffindor Tower when they were done, they found themselves journeying forward.

Hermione had told Harry that she missed her old self… the person she'd once been, the way she'd once felt. And somehow he'd known the way to bring her back to that again. They spent the evening, just her and him and Ron, sneaking their way around the castle to visit all the secret rooms and forbidden floors that they'd found in childhood, the ones they'd almost forgotten as the years had passed.

The places were vacant and dusty now, cleared of all their former magical glory. There was no longer a three-headed dog or a Philosopher's Stone. All the excitement was toned down to gentle wistfulness. The magic was gone, but the memories stayed, as real as if they stood there today, bringing back the remembrance of something _else_ that had once dwelled here, something else that was faded and forgotten. Or, rather, some_one_—a girl with bright golden eyes and bushy brown hair, a girl who knew who she was, knew where she fit.

A girl named Hermione Granger.

Still, the three friends had the distinct feeling that some of the magic remained. They sensed that there was something new, something wonderful hidden just beyond their sight. The walls, the endless rooms, held the promise of something else, some fresh enchantment just waiting for them to find it. The old magic had disappeared, but there were more spells to be discovered. These rooms were empty, airless, but there were always more rooms to be explored.

It had Hermione thinking. She had spent the last little while trying to find that girl she'd been before. But maybe that Hermione _was _lost for good.

For the first time the thought didn't bother her. Because maybe, just maybe, there was a new Hermione somewhere around the corner, waiting to be discovered, ready to fill the empty space.

Maybe there was no going back. Maybe she would just have to start over.

* * *

Draco sat still as a statue… silent, alone. The flickering fire in the hearth was dying, bathing the common room in quiet gold.

What time was it? He didn't know. He hadn't moved in what seemed like days, though it couldn't have been more than a few hours. On his rampant search for Hermione, a wave of clarity had washed through him. His logic, his sanity, had led him back to their dormitory, his mind reassuring him that sooner or later she would have to return. But curfew had come and gone, with no sign of her in sight.

She hadn't come back...

The loud click of the portrait closing shut finally reached his ears from behind him. Draco resisted the violent urge to whirl around and unleash hell. Instead, his voice was cold, toneless, and he stayed as motionless as before.

"It's late," he said, harsh. "You should have been here hours ago."

"Didn't mean to worry you." The mild, interested voice had Draco looking over his shoulder. "Or were you waiting on someone else?"

"Oh, it's you," Draco said blandly, his silver eyes dulling as they found the skeptical eyes of Blaise Zabini. He looked back to the fire. "How did you get in here?"

"The centaur let me in," was the amused reply.

Draco nodded. He didn't bother to ask his friend how he'd gotten the password, or when. Instead, he stared into the flames, watching as the fading embers melted into darkness. "What time is it?" he asked quietly.

"It's rounding on three-thirty." Blaise moved closer into the room, coming around the sofa to stare at Draco's profile. "Way past your bedtime, wouldn't you say?"

"Thanks for your concern, nanny, but I'm a big boy," his friend said coldly. He didn't so much as look the darker boy's way. "I can take care of myself."

Blaise considered him wryly. "So you keep telling me," he said. He leaned against the wooden bookcase behind him and crossed his arms. "You weren't at dinner tonight." His deep voice was casual enough, but Draco had come to know the weight hidden underneath.

"Actually, I _was _at dinner," he corrected coldly. "I went in with Pansy."

"You left without eating," his friend countered calmly.

Draco's smile tightened. Of course Blaise would have been watching. "Wasn't hungry," he explained shortly. "What, worried about my weight?" The words, the voice, were dry.

Blaise didn't answer, just picked a book from the case beside him, scouring the pages absently. "Granger didn't show up, either," he recalled casually after a moment, his black eyes on the hardback.

Draco's eyebrows lowered. "Worried about _her _weight?" he asked bitterly.

Blaise smiled at that. "I didn't see her at the match earlier, either," he continued, unaffected. "And _you_ happened to be mysteriously absent then, as well."

Draco's jaw clenched. "Do you have something to say?" he asked tightly. "Or are you talking just to talk?"

Blaise's amused smile widened, turned grim. "I always talk just to talk," he replied with a shrug. He closed the book in his hand, placing it back on the shelf. Carefully, he drew another one out, scanning the title. "You used to, too," he added after a moment. He glanced briefly at the blond-haired man. "You used to do a lot of things before Granger fell off that balcony."

"So you _do _have something to say," Draco said with a bitter smile. "I knew you would get it out eventually."

Blaise seemed just as ready for a fight. "Don't kid yourself, mate. I got it out when this shit first started. I've been a damned fool to let it rest." He shook his head, returning the book to its place. "Not as big a fool as you."

Draco laughed, the sound empty and harsh.

"Laugh if you want," Blaise threw out, "but there's nothing funny about it."

"You think I don't realize that?" Draco bit back. "You think I don't get it?"

"Do you?" Blaise asked, arms crossed. "Because you're not _acting_ like you get it. You're _acting_ like you've completely forgotten who you are—who _she _is!"

"I haven't." The words came out haunted.

"Then why can't you leave her alone?" his friend asked.

Draco said nothing, only continued to stare into the dying fire, his back straight, his jaw tight.

Blaise paced forward, not willing to accept silence. "What about your Task?" he pressed quietly. "Have you gotten the blood yet?"

"No," he answered. "Not yet." And then: "I'm not sure I ever will."

Blaise's eyebrows narrowed. "Not sure—mate, you have to." Again, there was silence. "You can't be serious. Malfoy, you _have _to!" he insisted. The black orbs of his eyes were bright. "God, I knew—I _knew_—you were out of control! You besotted idiot! What about your family? What about your future?"

Draco looked down at his hands. "I never said I wanted to be the Heir."

Blaise laughed, the sound harsh and unbelieving. "It's too late to go back, mate. It was always too late. This has been prophecy since our fathers' time."

The fire was almost completely dead, leaving only ashes for Draco to stare at. "I know my fate," he told Blaise, his voice dead. "I'll face it when I have to."

"When you have to?" Blaise snatched up an old newspaper from the coffee table at his legs. "Read one of these lately?" he asked, crumpling it in his fist and flinging it at Draco. "You seem to think you have time to spare, but it's already _happening_. We've all but wiped the Aurors clean." He shook his head, took a deep, calming breath. It didn't work. "The war has already _begun_— your fate is already _here_." There was a pause. "It's too late to switch sides."

Blaise rolled his dark eyes when, once again, his friend stayed silent. "This isn't one of your games anymore, Malfoy. You don't get to make the rules. An entire nation will be looking to you. And if you don't give them what they expect there _will _be consequences."

"I know."

Blaise shook his head at the words. He waited a moment to speak, and when he did, the fire was gone. In its place was the sad sound of impending doom. "She's just a girl, Malfoy. You can get another one." He laughed. "You _have _another one. And she's damned gorgeous, too."

"_You_ marry her, then," Draco spat, his whole body stiff.

Blaise looked at his friend with a bleak smile. "And let you miss out on all the fun? I think not."

Draco smiled at that, but it was completely uninspired.

Another silence fell between them. With a quiet sigh, Blaise stepped forward, lowering himself onto the seat beside his friend. "Pansy's not an idiot, you know. She sees that you're different," he told him. "It's only a matter of time before she sees the real reason why." A moment passed. "It's only a matter of time before they all do." He stared into the hearth. It was a long time before he spoke again. When he did, his voice was low. "When they find out the truth, they'll kill you," he said. He glanced to the side. "They'll kill you both."

Draco nodded, his eyes narrowed on the last of the orange embers still glowing in the ashes. "You think I've gone mad," he stated after a while, quiet, serious.

"I _know _you've gone mad," Blaise said, his smile grim. "The Draco Malfoy I remember wasn't half as dense as you—and _he_ was drunk most of the time."

Draco shook his head. There was one more silence, this one the longest.

"I care about her," he confessed finally, his voice barely above a whisper.

Blaise nodded once. "Then get the Task done," he advised. "Because if you don't, they'll send someone else." He glanced at his friend. "And that person won't be gentle," he added seriously. "There _will _be blood—so much more than that tiny vial requires." He looked back to the fire. "And it'll be on _your _head."

Draco swallowed, an unwanted image flashing before his eyes. He saw a bloodied Hermione strewn out on the ground, her eyes open and unseeing, her throat slit, her body drained, the red from within pooling around her.

And all just to fill one little glass vial. All because he didn't want to face his fate.

"You've made your point," Draco said through his teeth.

Blaise nodded, stood. "I'm still not sure it's sunken in," he observed, eyes narrowed and on his friend. Shaking his head, he stepped away from the sofa and back around to the main portrait. The thing swung open, making way for him to pass. He paused. "It will, though," he added ominously. "But by then it will be too late. For you _and_ for her."

Draco made a sound of disgust and waved his friend away. The portrait shut with a click, leaving him to the silence once again. Unable to handle the intense quiet, the haunting thoughts that drowned it out, he stormed to his room. Going to his cabinet, he yanked open the top drawer, angrily rummaging through his belongings until his hands found one of the cold bottles he had hidden away. He pulled it out, opened it, took one long swallow. Firewhiskey burned down his throat like fast relief.

But one sip wasn't enough to quell the emotions running wild inside of him. There weren't enough bottles in the world to do that...


	10. Waiting For Fate

_Saving You Summary—DMHG. Hermione Granger has a secret, one that's literally killing her: she has been suffering extreme abuse at the hands of her father. Who will come to her rescue? What if the only one who can is Draco Malfoy? Rated M for sexual content (including rape), suicide ideation, and violence._

_Disclaimer—Most of the characters and a lot of the setting belong to J.K. Rowling. The rest is mine._

A/N: Last updated March 2, 2010.

* * *

**:::Waiting For Fate:::**

Laid out on her back, Hermione dragged the blankets up to her chin and stared at the ceiling.

The sporadic sound of Ron's muttered sleep-talk and the rumble of Seamus' unceremonious snores invaded the silence, but for some reason they made her smile. It felt good to be back in Gryffindor Tower again. It had been a lifetime, it seemed, since she'd slept in these dormitories, tucked in securely among friends. She hadn't realized how much she had missed it, that elusive feeling of being safe, of being _home_. All her life, she'd been afraid, insecure… but this was the place she could be comfortable, confident. These rooms, all decked out in red and gold, were the places that had made her wounds less painful, her nightmares less threatening. This was the site of love, and trust, and strength. And courage. This was the place to come home to.

"Mmn…" A pained sound broke out over the drowsy mumbling and snores. Hermione turned her head to face it. Through the moonlit room, she could see Harry shifting beneath his covers. "_No!_" He was suddenly tossing and turning in the bed as if fighting off ghosts, moaning as if he was losing the fight.

Worried, Hermione threw her blankets aside and climbed out from underneath. Quietly, she moved the few steps to where her friend lay. "Harry?" she asked. She gently shook him. "Harry, are you alright?" He didn't wake at first. She shook him harder. "Harry, wake up."

Harry's eyelids came apart, presenting two bright emerald eyes. Hermione watched as the panic subsided and reality registered. After a while, he slowly sat up, holding one hand to his head and the other to his chest, breathing as if grasping for air.

Hermione sat on the bed beside him, rubbing his back with sympathetic eyes. "A nightmare?" she guessed as he tried to catch his breath. Harry nodded, swallowing, calming. "Do you… want to talk about it?" she dutifully asked.

"It was that damn ritual again," he answered, rubbing a tender finger along his lightning bolt scar. He shook his head. "The ceremony or whatever."

Hermione swallowed. "You mean… the ceremony for Malfoy," she stated cautiously.

Harry nodded again and let his hand drop down with a sigh. A moment passed. "I guess it'll probably be happening soon, then," he told her.

Hermione looked down. "Probably," she agreed calmly, but inside, her heart was aching. She didn't want to hear about this. She didn't want to _think _about this. "Do you need me to get you something?" she asked, changing the subject, distracting them both. "Some water?" she pressed when he shook his head.

"No. I'm fine. Just need to rest my eyes." He rubbed one eyelid with the knuckle of his index finger. "There's nothing to do about this Malfoy business. The snake is going to do what he's going to do." He forced a smile, but it was tight. "No use in us losing any more sleep over it than we have to, right?"

Hermione nodded. "Right," she said, but she knew it was a lot easier said than done.

She waited for him to lay back and resituate himself against his pillows. She rose and gently tucked the blankets back around him before tiptoeing back to her own bed. She climbed inside, puling the covers high over her, rolling into a ball and closing her eyes.

"There is one thing, though," she heard her friend say after a while. "That glass vial, the one I saw Malfoy hand to Voldemort…"

She slowly opened her eyes, her whole body filling with dread. "Yes?"

Harry's brows furrowed, and when he spoke next his voice was thoughtful. "I think it was... blood," he said with a shake of his head. He let out a breath, a sort of unbelieving laugh. He was certain now. "It was blood."

Hermione bit her lip and shut her eyes tight. God, she didn't want to hear any more. She didn't want to _know_ any more. Each new puzzle piece that fell into place felt like a knife plunging into her heart.

She tried to sleep. But Harry's words haunted her. _There's nothing to do about this Malfoy business_. _The snake is going to do what he's going to do..._

The snake... _the Death Eater..._

Hermione turned under the cool sheets of Neville's old bed.

A year ago, what Draco Malfoy was or planned to be wouldn't have mattered. They'd each had their places on opposite sides of the tracks—not enemies anymore, exactly, but strangers, ones that resented what they didn't understand. They kept their old perceptions and opinions, never once reevaluating, never considering that there was any need to. They stayed out of each other's way, floating past each other every once in a while, but never thinking to meet gazes, never thinking to care; one never wondering if the other wasn't floating at all, but drowning in the vastness of the murky sea around them.

But somehow, the tide had changed. The cold waters had found some sun, and the line in the sand had been washed away by warmer waves. For whatever reason, Draco Malfoy had finally noticed her drifting by. He had seen her sinking, and had saved her from the dark depths.

And it had changed everything. Right and wrong, so clear before, were blended together now, until there was no arrow to follow, no moral compass to be her guide. Nothing was as certain as it had been—what she should do, what she should _want_...

Because she did want him... without dignity, without reserve. She wanted to be with him, to be held in his arms—even if it meant bearing the cold and cutting glances that followed. Even if he didn't always want her, too.

The thought had the events of the previous afternoon replaying in her mind. She remembered the way Draco's lips had moved against hers, the way his body had pressed hers into the wall of that spare classroom, so harsh and heated and unrestrained. She remembered how he'd pushed her away, first with his hands and then with his words, remembered the icy glare and the disapproving tone, remembered feeling them like the crash that came after the high, like the slap that came when least expected.

She wished to God she could figure him out. He was hot one minute and cold the next. He could be so careful, so tender—and then so abrupt and so indifferent. He was like a box of Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans: at times, heartbreakingly sweet; at times, heartbreakingly sour. With him, she was always taking a chance—half the time to be met with the cold shoulder.

Could she love him? Could she _trust_ him? He hadn't given her much justification to do either. There was so much inside of him—darkness, certainly, but also light...

At least, there were _glimpses_ of light. But they were becoming more and more fleeting as the days drew on, darkening at a whim, blackening into night. The closer she got to him, the farther away she seemed to be. And the harder she tried, the more it hurt her when she failed. The more _he_ hurt her.

Harry's words were there again, hanging over her like a fog.

_There's nothing to do... Nothing to do..._

And she knew that she had to keep trying, because no one else was going to. They had all accepted the unacceptable—her friends, his friends... even him. They were too comfortable doing what they'd always done—watching him float by, not meeting his gaze, not caring, not stopping him as he let himself drown.

Well, Hermione wasn't about to turn the other cheek. Draco Malfoy had pulled her from the undertow. He had saved her from herself. And now it was time to return the favor.

Hermione sat up and threw the covers back, suddenly inspired, determined. Whatever had happened yesterday, whatever he had said or done, however he had hurt her didn't matter. She had to talk to him, speak _reason_ to him, even if he didn't want to hear it. Even if he didn't care what she said or thought, even if he didn't care about _her_. Maybe she could get him to listen. Maybe, just maybe, she could get him to reconsider.

But just maybe.

Hermione grabbed her school sweater from its heap on the ground, silently pulled it over her head. She picked up her book bag and situated its strap over one shoulder. And with one last glance around at the sleeping boys, she crept out of the dark room and down the stairs.

The Gryffindor common room was aglow with faded light. The black night sky was blue with dawn through the windows, and a dying fire in the hearth was casting shadows against the walls. Hermione could see someone on the sofa, head lowered to the armrest as if in sleep.

She stepped off the last step, her brows furrowing. And then she smiled softly. It was Ginny's familiar orange-red hair that gleamed in the firelight. The girl must have fallen asleep before she'd made it up to her room.

Hermione slowly lowered her bag to the floor and stepped forward. Carefully, she pulled the red wool blanket from over the sofa back, unfolding it, intending to lay it over her sleeping friend. But all of a sudden, Ginny's tired head was lifting, turning, her blue eyes rising to find hers.

"Hey, stranger," the girl said with a sleepy smile. "What brings you around these parts at this ungodly time of day?"

Hermione came around the sofa, bringing the blanket with her. "I was staying with Ron and Harry," she answered. She lowered to the cushions beside the younger girl, sweeping the blanket over both of them. "But I couldn't sleep," she confessed quietly.

Ginny shifted closer, tucking her side of the coverlet around herself and resting her head on Hermione's shoulder. "Me neither," she sighed. "I needed some time to mellow out."

"Yeah, me too." Hermione tilted her head against Ginny's. They sat like that, silent, watching the last flames dance in the fireplace. "Have there been any new developments in the search for a Halloween Dance date?" she asked quietly after a while.

She felt the other girl's head shake against her shoulder. "Dean's on the verge of asking me," was the bland reply. Ginny sat up. "But he's waiting a while. He knows _I'm_ waiting for Harry to ask me." She sighed. "And Harry—he's just... waiting. With no end in sight." Hermione opened her mouth. "He's a lost cause, Hermione," Ginny insisted before she could get a word out. "He's too busy worrying about missing Aurors and possible Death Eater ceremonies to trouble himself with a silly thing like the dance. You know how he gets when all this impending doom stuff comes up," she said. "He's too preoccupied with You-Know-Who to care about anyone else."

"That's not true," Hermione tried to say.

Ginny rolled her pretty blue eyes. "I'm not the press, Mione. We can be honest here," she said mildly. "You can't argue with evidence," she added. "He's started up again."

"Started what?"

"Collecting newspaper articles," Ginny replied. "And going to the library by himself—staying there for hours of his own volition. Talking endlessly about his dreams, analyzing them and fretting about them. Bringing You-Know-Who's name up in _every_ bloody conversation."

"You can hardly blame him," Hermione defended. "As long as Voldemort is out there, his life is in danger."

"I know," the other girl conceded, exhaling dramatically. "I wouldn't be so irritated if he would just let me be a part of it." She crossed her arms huffily. "It's not fair. Ron whines and argues, but at the end of the day, he gets to be right there with Harry on the front lines." She looked to her friend. "And the two of us get stuck way in the back, where we can do nothing but watch and wait for it all to be over, for everything to go back to business as usual." The corners of her lips quirked up into a tight smile. "Not that _business as usual _is something to talk about," she added. "But I'd rather be partially ignored than completely."

"They try to include us," Hermione argued.

"Only when they absolutely have to," Ginny returned. "Most of the time, _they're_ the ones off at battle. And we're the women waiting for them to come home."

Hermione smiled sympathetically and looped Ginny's arm around hers. "I used to hate it, too. Back when we were younger."

"You mean back when you were the Amazon and I was the introvert?" the other girl put in, one eyebrow raised.

Hermione nodded slowly. "I wanted so desperately to be one of the blokes," she remembered with a wistful smile. "I wanted them to like me. I wanted to prove that I was worthy of it."

"That's what _I_ want," Ginny answered adamantly. "But every time I take a step forward, he takes two steps back. Every time I work my way in, he pushes me out—and away." She swallowed, trying not to let the tears that brimmed in her voice show in her eyes. "I'm not shy the way I used to be. I'm not afraid," she said. "I'm strong enough to be there for him, to fight beside him. I _want_ to." She shook her head, looked to Hermione. "I just... want him to want me there, too," she said quietly. "I just want him to want me."

Hermione felt the words, identified with them. She hugged the arm around hers tighter to her side. "Don't give up just yet, Gin," she advised gently. "There's still some time for him to come around."

Ginny let her head fall back down to Hermione's shoulder. "Not much," she sighed.

"Enough," Hermione assured her.

They sat that way, arms linked, heads resting against each other, watching the morning sky lighten through the curtained windows and the flames flatten in the fireplace.

"I should head back to my own room," Hermione said after a while, lifting her head. "It's almost sunrise. And I'm not really supposed to be here."

"Don't go, Mione," Ginny coaxed. "Be rebellious for once."

Hermione smiled, but peeled the blanket from over her lap. "I would," she said, standing. "Only, I have some things I need to work out. With Malfoy," she elaborated reluctantly when Ginny arched a brow.

"Oh, is that why you stayed the night here?" the girl asked sympathetically. "The two of you had a fight?"

Hermione forced a smile. "You could say that."

Ginny crossed her arms. "I could beat him up for you," she offered matter-of-factly. "I know I look innocent, but I have a very mean right hook."

Hermione shook her head. "No thanks," she said. "I think it's time I found that Amazon you mentioned before. You know... the one I used to be."

Ginny wiggled her eyebrows. "I like the sound of that. See you later?" she asked.

Hermione nodded. "See you later."

She walked back around the sofa and retrieved her book bag from where she'd left it at the bottom of the stairs. She reached inside, digging underneath her books for the little gold key that unlocked the passage from Gryffindor Tower to her own common room. She found it, drawing it out and slowly inserting it into the door, twisting. The door opened, and with a silent wave over her shoulder, she headed through.

Tiredly, she wandered down the darkened corridor, her steps slow, heavy, like the final steps of a death-row inmate as he walked to his demise. She sighed, almost wishing that that were the case, that all she had to face was an electric chair or a Dementor's Kiss. But what lay waiting at the end of this corridor was much more complicated and much more uncertain.

Would he listen to her? Or would yesterday's rejection spill over into today?

She reached the door, quietly unlocking it and walking through. Her bedchamber was empty, the bed untouched, the carpet uncovered. If he had come for her in the night, he hadn't left any evidence behind. The room was a desert, vast and vacant, and she wondered briefly if those nights in Draco's arms had been nothing more than a lost woman's mirage.

She walked over to the full-length mirror that hung against the wall. Her school uniform was in pretty bad shape. Wrinkled lines creased her white button-up shirt, and the pleats of her skirt were bent out of shape. The poor outfit had suffered some severe abuse over the last day, first during her heated encounter with Draco in the spare classroom, and then over the course of her sleepover with Harry and Ron. Its worn, disheartened appearance was a direct reflection of how Hermione felt inside—tired and in disarray, not quite daring to hope.

When she shed the clothes, the looming sadness remained.

She changed into a simple, white, long-sleeved tee, and a faded pair of slim-fit jeans. She walked away from the mirror, not caring enough to even attempt to tame the mess of curls that fell down her back.

Sighing, she moved to the far wall, pulling the curtains aside. There was an orange glow over the water in the distance, and the first bit of sun was peaking out over the horizon. She opened the door, the cool morning breeze flowing into the stifling room, giving it air, making it easier to breathe.

"Well, look who finally decided to grace us with her presence."

The voice came from somewhere just out of sight. Hermione's heart immediately picked up, shivering at the cool, derisive tone. Two hesitant steps brought her out onto the balcony and into the autumn wind.

He was there, sitting on his patio chair, his legs crossed and extended out in front of him. A heavy glass bottle sat beside the leg of his chair, the words _Abbott Firewhiskey_ written in fancy writing across the label. His blank silver eyes were on the distant illuminated place where the earth and sky met. He didn't glance at her, not even for a moment.

Hermione looked from his profile to the empty bottle, and then back again. "Have... you been drinking?" she asked him with furrowed brows. There was no slur in his voice, and he seemed calm enough. But then, he was legendary for being a competent drunk.

"No, I just dumped the contents of that very pricey bottle down the drain," he said sarcastically. He waited a moment and then met her gaze. "What do you think?" he asked her hostilely.

Hermione studied him thoughtfully. "I think you've been drinking," she said.

His gaze was back on the horizon. "You always were sharp," he bit off coolly.

"You, too," she replied warily, referring to his abrupt tone of voice. She looked back to the bottle. "Did you finish that Abbott by yourself?" she asked, taking in the sheer size of the empty container.

"Yup," he said, popping the "p".

Hermione's brows furrowed as she considered the man before her. She hadn't known what to expect, but she hadn't expected _this_. The cold, aloof Draco Malfoy from the previous day was still before her, but with the rising sun she saw him in a different light. She had thought that _she_ was the shattered one, that _he _was the rock. But perhaps the ice in his eyes was just a mask. Perhaps the steel and stone was just armor, the kind he locked himself behind to keep his secrets safe. Perhaps underneath the jagged edges, he was hiding a few broken pieces, himself.

_People look at you and think they know what they see... the dark side... the bad guy. They don't understand that there are more than two sides, more than good or bad._

_There's always more, isn't there?_

How could she have let herself forget?

_There's always more..._

Could she dare to hope? Did the unfeeling Draco Malfoy have _feelings_ after all? Had this night apart hurt him as much as it had her?

Could it be that he'd missed her?

She felt a smile threaten at the thought, felt the burden of insecurity lift off her shoulders and fly away. He would tell her, she realized. He would trust her. Just as she had trusted him.

"You could get in trouble for that, you know," she told him, one brow arching smoothly.

Draco shrugged carelessly. "You could get into trouble for a lot of things. Like missing curfew," he accused. "Or sleeping in a dormitory that isn't your own." He glanced at her briefly. "A _boys_ dormitory, no less."

Hermione crossed her arms. "What makes you think I slept in the boys dormitory?"

Draco's silver eyes sparked with knowing. "Call it an educated guess." He picked up the empty bottle and began to swirl it in his grasp. "So did you sleep in Weasel's bed?" he asked her, his voice agitated, his eyes watching the imaginary liquid churn within the glass. "Or did you curl up with _Potter_?" The last word came out with bitter disgust. When she stayed silent, his gaze narrowed on the bottle. "Come on, out with it," he commanded. "You can't tell me that you slept on the floor."

"No, I can't," she confirmed softly. "I didn't."

Draco's eyes narrowed. He hated the thought of her in another man's bed, hated knowing that he had driven her there. "So which was it?" he pressed angrily. "Potter or Weasley?"

Hermione's head tilted curiously to the side. "Are you angry because it's against the rules," she asked, "or because I wasn't sleeping with _you_ last night?"

Draco's jaw clenched and he tossed the heavy bottle over his shoulder, where it fell to the ground and noiselessly cracked into smaller pieces. "I'm angry," he ground out, "because you ran off and then didn't come back."

Hermione knelt to clean the mess up. "I didn't run off. You _sent _me off," she corrected. And then she sighed, paused, looking up at him as he looked out over the railing. "And I wasn't sure I could face you after that," she admitted softly. There was a dry smile on her face as she dutifully gathered the broken shards together. "I wouldn't have gone if I'd known you were going to try to drink yourself to death."

"Wouldn't you have?" he asked, his silver eyes lowering. Hermione stayed silent, but he could feel her soft brown eyes on his profile. "You were afraid to come back," he said after a while. It wasn't a question. "You thought I'd be cruel. Like I was yesterday."

Hermione sighed. She weighed her words carefully. "I didn't know what to think," she told him. "You're hard to predict." Her eyes were on his hands, watching as they balled into fists. "You're like two different people… and I never know which one I'm going to get. I'm never sure which one is _you_."

"They're both me," he said, turning sharply, meeting her gaze with a bitter smile. He laughed, but humorlessly. "It's a two-for-one deal."

"There's always more." Hermione looked down. "I just… don't know if I can manage both of you." _Survive_ both of you.

"Then don't," he snapped, hating her words, hating that he deserved them. "See if I care." His jaw clenched. "You don't need me—and I _don't_ need you."

Hermione busied herself with the shattered glass. "Now you _are _being cruel," she whispered, trying not to be hurt.

Draco offered no apology. "I can't change who I am," was what he said instead, his face like stone.

_I can't change, not even for you._ _Never for you._

Hermione swallowed. "Are you who you want to be, then? Is your life going where you want it to go?"

"Is yours?" he threw back.

The corners of her lips turned up slightly. "I don't know," she answered, her voice a whisper. "But I know, at least for now, that the blood is behind me." She rose, and Draco looked at her then, his eyes intense. "But it isn't behind you… is it?" she asked him.

"I don't know what you mean," he denied. But he looked back out at the sunrise, and in his eyes were all the secret burdens of tomorrow.

Hermione looked, too. And in the rising sun, she found inspiration. They could only go forward. There were new questions, new uncertainties that needed to be spoken for. _Secrets can kill—_she knew that better than anyone. And she knew that they were in him, ripping him apart, just as they had done to her. And as the truth continued to unveil itself further, she found she was dying for him, with him.

She wouldn't let him drown. Not without a fight.

Carefully, she stepped over the broken glass. "Tell me about the Joining."

Draco shot up out of the chair and came to stand at the stone parapet, his back facing her. Half of his mind was reeling with questions, with emotions; the other half was numb as ice. "What are you talking about?" he asked tightly.

"The ceremony, Draco," she replied patiently. "_Your _ceremony."

Draco felt his insides twisting. How did she always know? Could she read his mind? Was she really that wise?

Or was he really that transparent…

Hermione's eyes watched his. The silver had turned to smoke, dull and passionless, looking how she remembered hers had only a few short weeks ago. She hadn't realized until now how much things had changed, how drastically their roles had reversed. She stepped closer to him. He could deny it all he wanted, but he needed her now, just as she had needed him then. And he was resisting, just as she had, wanting no help, no redemption, believing it was too late for either.

That was where yesterday's cruelty had come from! That was where it was coming from now. From fear. From hurt. From hopelessness. From the secrets hidden deep inside, the ones that had tainted his past and would rob him of his future. The ones he couldn't surrender because he didn't know how.

"You can tell me," she coaxed quietly, taking another step towards him, bringing herself closer until she was just behind him, their shoulders almost touching. Slowly, she took hold of his hand, joining their fingers together. "You can _trust_ me."

Draco looked away from the rising sun, down at where their hands connected. Her soothing words were tempting him, luring him into confessing everything… about the future, about the blood… about the feelings he'd been suppressing deep inside his heart. If he told her about his Task, about her place in it, what would she say? Would she want to hold his hand then? Or would it scare her away?

Well, she _should_ be scared. Because it was get her blood or die.

"You don't always have to be so alone, you know," he heard her whisper. Her voice, so soft, made him want to believe it could really be that simple.

But he knew better.

He yanked his hand out of her comforting grasp. "There's nothing to tell," he bit out.

Hermione only shook her head. "That's not going to cut it," she said. Her voice was quiet but firm as she repeated the words he'd once spoken to her. "We both know it isn't true."

He laughed, bitter. _How_ did she know? How _could_ she? But then, she'd always found a way past the stone. She'd always found a way to the heart of everything. To the heart of _him_.

"I thought we had passed this point." Her voice was almost pleading. "Please… why are there still walls between us?"

Seeing her pain, hearing her pleas, was like torture. He longed to tell her the truth, the whole truth. Didn't she know that he _did _trust her—her and _only_ her? But the words were like prophecy—once voiced, they could never be unsaid. There would be no turning back.

And he _had_ to turn back. He had to leave her. Duty demanded it.

"There's nothing I can say. Those walls _have_ to be there," he declared with renewed conviction. "They will _always_ be there."

The words were biting, but Hermione didn't let the sting sink in. She could see the battle going on inside of him, could feel it. He _wanted _to tell her; she knew that now without a doubt. He wanted to tell her, to trust her. And as long as he wanted to, there would be hope.

Draco's hands were clenched so tightly that his knuckles were white. Her eyes softening, she covered one with hers. "Let me help you," she whispered.

Draco withdrew his hand for the second time. "I_ don't need your help_, Granger_,_" he snapped, annunciating the words with harsh emphasis. He pushed away from the parapet and stormed into his room, slamming the door behind him.

He hadn't used her last name in what seemed like a lifetime, though, realistically, it had probably only been a few weeks. Still, it hurt to hear the word again, hurt to feel the distance it signified.

Hermione pushed the pain aside. She wouldn't be put off. Not this time.

She took a calming breath, praying for patience before following him in. "You can be as nasty as you like, but it won't do any good," she told him. She made her voice stronger, more certain. "Things _will _be different now." She met his stormy gaze, returning his words to her. "I'm not going away."

Draco felt every part of him tense. She wasn't lying. And it had his heart turning over inside his ribcage—beating with fear, with anger, with hope, with love. The words soothed him, terrified him. Yes, she would stay, he thought. And even as the relief swept through him, he knew he had to find a way to force her out.

Because Zabini was right. This was hopeless. This was _dangerous_. She could die… and it would be his fault.

"Tell me what's wrong," she begged. "Please."

There was a pause, a tense sort of silence, and for a moment Hermione thought that he might actually comply. But when he spoke next, his words were cold, bitter. "You wouldn't understand."

"I can't if you won't let me," she reasoned sadly.

Draco's jaw worked. "There's nothing to say."

"There is." Swallowing, she drummed up all the courage she possessed. She'd already pressed so far. She couldn't back down now.

"Tell me about the vial."

Draco felt lightning strike his chest. "What vial?" he asked, his voice like ice.

"You know what vial," Hermione said softly. "The one filled with blood."

Draco went still, somehow holding the raw fear at bay. Oh, God, she knew about the vial…

Hermione moved forward, wondering how their roles had reversed so suddenly, so completely. Hadn't he been the one demanding an answer? Hadn't _he _been the one that was always so sure?

"Where did the blood come from?" she asked.

Hadn't _he_ been the one to ask her that?

"I can't answer these questions. I can't tell you these things!"

Hadn't she been the one to refuse to answer? Hadn't _she_ been the one that was so defiant, so despondent?

"Can't… or won't?" He only shook his head. "Please, Draco," she pleaded. "I can't help you if I don't know what's wrong. Just tell me whose blood it is."

Draco's gaze was accusing as he backed away from her, maintaining a safe distance. "What, so you and your little mates can have me carted off to Azkaban?"

"I could never do that to you! You _must _know that! Besides, you can't go to prison for something you haven't done!"

"But I'm going to do it, Hermione!" he shouted. He took a calming breath—one moment, two. "I don't have a choice," he finished numbly.

Hermione watched him, her sad brown eyes alert. "But you don't want to, right?" she asked him after a while. "You don't want to..."

Draco's jaw tightened. He said nothing.

For Hermione, it was confirmation enough. "The blood," she tried again. "Whose blood is it?"

_Yours._ He spun around, presenting his back to her. "I can't. I can't tell you, Hermione." He was quiet, but his voice was set. He wouldn't tell her, couldn't tell her and keep her safe. This was the way it had to be.

Hermione sighed. She could feel his resolve like an iron fist squeezing her heart. He wouldn't tell her, she realized, at least not now. Not yet. He needed time. He needed understanding. And, no matter how callous and cold he pretended to be, he needed _her_. She knew that now without any doubt at all.

Taking one careful step behind her, she pushed her back to the balcony door and closed it with a gentle click. And then, slowly, she stepped forward. Draco's back was still facing her, his spine straight, stiff. Silently she went to him, needing to hold him—knowing _he _needed her to.

Draco felt her arms slip around his midriff, felt her cheek press to the place between his shoulder blades. "I didn't sleep with Harry," he heard her confess quietly after a while. "Or Ron," she added. "There's a spare bed in their dormitory. That's where I stayed."

He looked to the ceiling, gritting his teeth tight. Relief was in his heart, iced with regret and bitterness.

"What do you want from me?" he whispered harshly at long last.

Hermione edged her way around him, until she was hugging him from the side. Standing on her tiptoes, she rested her chin on his shoulder. "I want you to come to bed," she told him softly.

Draco's brows knit. His jaw clenched. "What about the rest?" he asked her, his voice still tense. "Can you stay, even though you don't know me? Even though you can't trust me?"

Hermione looked down, took a deep breath. Looked back up. "Just say that you want me," she whispered. "If you say it, I'll believe it. I'll believe _you_."

Draco let himself turn to her for the first time. He let his hands touch her, hold her, let his silver eyes finally stay with hers. They were haunted and hot.

"I want you." His voice was ragged.

Hermione closed her eyes in relief, slowly nodded. This, at least, she was sure of. This, at least, was real. And for now, it had to be enough.

"Then come to bed," she commanded softly.

Draco frowned. "No more questions. Just like that?"

"Just like that." She reached out her hand, breathed in as she felt his fingers close around hers.

Together they walked the few short steps to the bed, tearing away the covers and climbing in. They fell into each other's arms, saying nothing, letting silence fill in the blanks that had wedged their way between them. The two had spent one cold, sleepless night apart, both wondering if what they had was at its end, or if it had ever really begun. Wondering if it had even been real in the first place...

But everything was suddenly made right. The frigid ice was melted away. Yesterday's cold encounter and the uncertain night they'd spent away from each other seemed to disappear from time. The world made sense again as the two held each other close and drifted off to peaceful sleep, their bed bathed in the pure, redeeming light of sunrise.

* * *

The Great Hall was loud and packed with students later that morning, but Harry's friends had yet to make their way down. He ate his breakfast, surrounded by his housemates but feeling alone, his mind on the dream from hours before, on Draco Malfoy's imminent initiation and the ever-ominous phial of blood.

He was so lost in his own thoughts that he didn't notice Ginny until after she had wedged her way between him and the boy at his side. "Hey," he greeted. "I was wondering when one of you would find your way down here."

Ginny smiled, but the turning up of lips seemed vaguely annoyed. "Really? Because you didn't even notice I was here."

Harry heard the slight edge, didn't quite understand it—assumed she'd merely woken up on the wrong side of the bed. "Have you seen Hermione or Ron?" he asked her.

Ginny shook her head. "They're probably getting their beauty sleep," she said with a shrug, and went about cutting a muffin into quarters. "It is Saturday, after all—the universal day of sleeping in."

Harry smiled humorlessly and pushed his scrambled eggs around his plate with his fork. "I _wish_ I could sleep in," he told her with bitter amusement. "But these nightmares aren't giving me a break." He looked across the room to the Slytherin table, to the empty place where the pompous Prince usually sat. "Whatever Voldemort has planned for Malfoy, I think it's going to happen soon."

Ginny placed her knife back on table with a resounding clank. "Wow. I've been here for _thirty_ _seconds_, and already you're on about You-Know-Who."

Harry was surprised by the tone. "It's been weighing on my mind," he explained seriously. She offered him no comforting words, as she usually did, only continued to munch on her muffin. He frowned. "But you're right," he continued cautiously. "I shouldn't focus on it. I keep telling myself not to dwell."

"Could have fooled me," Ginny said tightly.

Harry looked perplexedly at her. Where was this hostility coming from? The sunny disposition he had always counted on to brighten his mood seemed cloudy today, as if on the quiet verge of a building storm.

He'd seen the many incarnations of Ginny's attitude. She was far too feisty to be bright and joyful all the time—she was, after all, related to Ron. She shared his quick temper, his impulsive whims, though, of course, she worked much harder to tame them. She could be defiant when commanded, sarcastic when questioned, fierce when challenged, flippant when tried. She could look at you with those beautiful blue eyes and make you feel like less than the dirt on the ground.

But never without reason. Never with him.

So he had absolutely _no idea_ how to react.

He decided to try to make conversation. "So... how go the plans for the Halloween Dance?" he asked her.

Ginny shrugged one careless shoulder. "Dean's been dropping hints," she answered casually. "I'm pretty sure he's going to ask me to go with him."

Harry glanced to the side. "I meant... the Prefect plans, not your date plans," he told her carefully.

"Oh." Ginny shrugged again. "You should have been more specific." She didn't bother to go back and answer his real question, just continued to eat, letting silence fall.

But her words stuck with Harry, especially in the silence. "So... Dean," he mused, unable to bear it.

"Dean," she confirmed matter-of-factly.

"Just like last year," he stated.

"Yep. Just like last year."

Harry's hands fisted under the table—but, of course, Ginny didn't see. "Do you want to go with him?" he asked after a while.

She turned, her ocean eyes considering him. "Do you want me to go with him?" she asked, answering one question with another.

Harry frowned. "What does what I want have to do with it?" he asked her guardedly.

Ginny smiled wanly, but there was sadness in her eyes. "I don't know. Nothing, I guess." She turned back to her breakfast, holding back a sigh. "You know me, Harry," she said dully. "I don't pretend to be too good for anyone. If someone asks me, I'll say yes."

Harry nodded. He forced himself to smile, too. "That'll make Dean happy. He fancies you, you know."

"I know," Ginny replied crisply. She glanced to the side. "I'm not _blind_ the way some other people are."

"What is that supposed to mean?" Harry asked.

Ginny rolled her eyes and pushed herself up with a sound of aggravation. "I don't know, Harry—figure it out. And when you do, come find me." She shook her head, pushed her orange hair back. "Of course, knowing you, by then it'll be too late," she accused, "and I'll already be with somebody else." She whirled around and began to storm off.

"Ginny—" he called, but she was like lightning, striking and then vanishing before he'd known what had happened, leaving him speechless and utterly confused.

"God, what'd you do to piss her off?" a nearby classmate asked with a smile.

Harry only shook his head, watching as Ginny disappeared from sight.

* * *

Warm autumn sun was streaming in through the dusty windows of the school library later, shining on the rows of old books that had been forgotten on the shelves. The Golden Trio sat silently at one of the corner tables, each one focused on the tasks before them: Harry searching through a stack of books for any helpful information on Voldemort; Hermione finishing the last few feet of her Advanced Transfiguration homework; and Ron restlessly turning the pages of an old quidditch magazine, his shoulders slumped, his blue eyes impatient.

"This is _so _boring," he whined, flipping the glossy thing closed. "I want to go outside."

Harry didn't look up. "Then go outside, Ron. No one's stopping you."

Ron made a face. "But I don't want to go by myself," he complained.

Harry flipped one wrinkled page of his book. "Go find Seamus or Neville."

"Or Dean," Hermione prompted dryly.

Harry glanced to the side. "Yeah. Or _Dean_," he agreed bitterly. "I'm sure he would be just _ecstatic_ to go outside with you."

Ron shook his head. "They all went to Hogsmeade," he said on a sigh. "They asked me to go, too. Silly me, I just assumed we'd be doing _something_ this afternoon."

"You know what happens when you assume," Hermione chastised.

"Yeah, something about an _ass_," Harry responded, sending a speaking glance Ron's way.

Ron retaliated by grabbing up his camera from the tabletop and clicking the button, sending a blinding flash into Harry's emerald eyes.

"Damn it, Ron!" He removed his glasses, pressing his fingers into his eyelids. "Why could you _possibly_ want a picture of this moment?"

"This travesty needs to be documented," Ron informed him matter-of-factly. He held up the camera. "Your children's children will see this photograph and be forever shamed."

Hermione smiled, but Harry wasn't as amused. "What are you, some sort of photographer now?" he asked. "I feel like that thing has been flashing in my face ever since..." He looked hauntedly at Hermione, shook his head. "Just put it away, will you?" he commanded dourly.

Ron did, looking reluctant.

"For what it's worth, I think its a grand idea," Hermione spoke up softly. "We've been friends for years and have next to no pictures to show for it."

Ron smiled victoriously. "Thank you, Hermione," he said, chin raised. And then he crossed his arms. "I only wish I could say the same about your ideas."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, it was your idea to come here," he told her crisply.

She smiled. "That it was."

"And, of course, Harry just _jumped_ at the chance to do his 'research'," he went on, gesturing resentfully to the man sitting across from him. He shook his head. "You know, mate, I'm pretty sure you're not going to find the answers in a _library book_," he informed his friend.

Harry squinted, trying to focus past the noise and complaints to the words on the page. "I have before. Which means I might again."

Ron slumped down in his chair, unable to argue with that. "I suppose I understand, since it may end up being a matter of life and death," he allowed. And then his gaze snapped up to Hermione. "But you—_you_ do _not_ have an excuse," he accused.

Hermione only smiled. "It may not be a matter of life and death, but homework is still important."

"But it's the weekend, Hermione. The end of the week," Ron complained. "Even God rested on the seventh day!"

"Unfortunately, I'm not God. I can't afford to fall behind." Hermione raised one brow softly. "Also, it's only the sixth day," she said.

Ron rolled his eyes. "Whatever. The point is that the sun is shining. The birds are singing," he said. "Need I remind you that soon there will _be_ no more birds? They'll be flying south for the winter soon, and you won't get the chance to hear or see them again 'til spring."

Harry closed his book with a snap, causing dust to fly. "Gee, Ron, if I had known you loved the _birds_ so much, I would have bought you a canary. You could have listened to it sing all day long if you liked."

Ron only rolled his eyes again and turned to the girl beside him. "Come on, Mione. You don't want to be around this _drag_. Come out and have fun with me," he tried to coax.

Hermione just continued to write. "We've been having the same conversation every weekend for seven years," she told him mildly. "What makes you think this one is going to end any different?"

Ron sat back with a frustrated sound. "We're wasting a perfect day!" he exclaimed. "We should be out and about, not stuck in this stuffy old room." He slumped over, letting his knuckles hold his face up as his gaze traveled lazily around the room. "Ginny's walking in," he said, observing the entrance in a bored tone. And then, all of a sudden, he was sitting up with wide eyes. "Oh God. And she's with Gwen." One hand automatically went up to smooth his bright hair.

Hermione leaned forward, following his gaze. Ginny Weasley was lingering in the entranceway with her classmate, the beautiful and popular Gwen Carver. The girls had linked arms, and were speaking quietly to one another as their gazes searched the stacks for some unknown person or thing.

Ginny's eyes found their table, but she didn't walk over, didn't meet Harry's emerald eyes. Instead, all she did was smile wanly, not saying anything, not following as Gwen waved at them warmly.

Hermione raised a hand, waving back. "See," she whispered to Ron. "Even a goddess like Gwen Carver condescends to come to the library on a Saturday." They watched the younger girls situate themselves at a table across the room with a pile of the library's newest fashion and gossip magazines.

Hermione turned her gaze to Ron, who was watching the blonde-haired girl with eager eyes. "Weren't you thinking about asking her to the dance," Hermione asked, nudging him.

Ron nodded to himself, took a deep breath. "I'm going over there," he decided after a moment. "I'm going to do it." He swiveled around in his seat, facing Hermione with furrowed brows. "How do I look?" he asked her, straightening.

Hermione brushed the shoulder of his sweater—a Christmas gift his mom had knitted for him the year before. "The same as you do every day."

"Damn," he swore. He looked over his shoulder, then back again. "Well, I guess it's going to have to do. Do I have anything in my teeth?" He smiled, revealing his incisors.

"No."

"How's my breath?" He blew hot air in her direction.

Hermione brought a hand to her lips and pasted on an encouraging smile. "Minty fresh," she lied.

"Brilliant." He shot up out of his chair, shaking his limbs as if loosening up for a quidditch match. "Wish me luck."

"Good luck!" She watched with an affectionate smile as Ron determinedly headed over to his sister's table, pulling out a chair and taking a seat next to Gwen.

"Idiot," Harry muttered, shaking his head. "She's never going to go with him."

"Hey, at least he's trying."

The words had Harry's eyes shifting to redheaded girl that sat on Gwen's other side. "I guess." He only watched her for a second before he brought his careful eyes back to Hermione. "So..." he said, trying to sound casual, "have you talked to Ginny at all today?"

Hermione looked at him with a mild smile, nodded slowly. "She told me what happened at breakfast."

He threw his hands up. "Then maybe you can tell me, because I'm _still_ not sure." He sat back, crossed his arms. "So—why is she angry? What did I do?"

Hermione tilted her head to the side. "It's not what you did, Harry," she told him softly. "It's what you didn't do."

Harry let out a breath of air, shook his head. His eyes went to the side again, looked at the pretty girl in the distance. It was a while before he spoke. "I can't give her what she wants, Hermione," he said finally, quietly. He looked back to his friend. "I told you why."

Hermione smiled thinly. "I know," she sighed. "You men are always talking about what you can't do."

Harry looked away at that. It was a sweeping statement—a generality. Harry never would have thought that she'd had another man in mind when she'd said the words. He never would have guessed his mortal nemesis, Draco Malfoy, was that man.

Hermione watched him with furrowed brows. "Listen," she said softly, "I don't pretend to know what the right thing to do is." She looked at him seriously. "Maybe you shouldn't either."

"I'm doing what's best for everyone," Harry declared resolutely. "Her included."

Hermione slowly shook her head. "You say you don't want to hurt her, but you already are," she tried to make him understand. "You're hurting her every day that you don't return her feelings and every time you push her away." She saw his jaw tighten, the same way Draco's tended to when faced with words he didn't want to hear. She sighed. "You know her, Harry. She's the kind of girl that dreams about love and romance and fairy tales. And she's put all that on hold because those dreams have always included you." She followed his haunted gaze across the room to the pretty blue-eyed girl. "But I imagine she's rather tired of being patient," she told him quietly.

Harry didn't respond. Silence fell.

"See there," he said after a while. He nodded to Ron, who was listening to Gwen go on about something she'd read in her magazine. "He's not going to do it," he told Hermione. "He's lost his nerve."

Hermione watched Ron for a moment, and then Harry. And then she turned her eyes away, thinking of Draco. "Yes, that appears to be going around these days," she said sadly, before turning her dark eyes back to her work.

* * *

Like he did every day, Draco sat with Pansy at breakfast on Monday morning.

Hermione watched the Royal Couple with tired eyes. To the rest of the world, they must have seemed casual. But every little detail weighed on Hermione's heart: how Pansy's head lay against his shoulder; how dark strands of her hair climbed around his upper arm like poison ivy; how her cobalt eyes sparkled underneath her bangs; how she smiled a feline smile, as if winning some secret game; and how he said nothing, did nothing, just continued to let her rest against him.

Hermione swallowed. Only a few hours ago, it had been her head on his shoulder, her long curls that had wisped over his arm and chest. Now, however, she couldn't have felt farther away.

She lowered her eyes back to her plate, forced herself to eat.

She had told him that it would be enough—knowing that he wanted her, hearing him say the words. But she had been deceiving herself, giving herself a reason to stay—and an excuse to let the rest go. Why was she so desperate for him? How could she so willingly forget who he was, overlook what he planned to become? She needed to toughen up, needed to remember her pride. She couldn't let herself love him so utterly, so completely, not if he wasn't going to love her that way, too. She couldn't let herself settle for scraps, for mere _glimpses_ of good.

And she needed to know that somehow she could get through to him—before it was too late, before the Dark Mark tore them apart and made them enemies again for good.

Hermione finished her breakfast, slung her bag over her shoulder, and headed out of the Great Hall, not so much as glancing back at the Slytherin table.

The uncertainty of tomorrow loomed like a rain cloud waiting to storm. What should she expect? How should she prepare? Was there some way to stop Draco, to help him?

Was there hope?

Instead of going to Potions, Hermione found herself seeking out the one person she knew who might have some to offer.

The gargoyle that guarded Dumbledore's office was less than encouraging. Its stone eyes glared at her as she approached, as if telling her, _Beware. You'll find no comfort here_. She parked herself beside the hard-faced creature, waiting, knowing the headmaster had surely changed the password since the last time she'd been inside.

She began to get restless as the minutes passed, but determination kept her in place. She needed answers. She needed _reassurance_.

She needed help.

Professor Dumbledore finally did appear at the end of the corridor, a stack of school files cradled like a child in his arms. He didn't notice her at first, and continued to amble on slowly, humming distractedly, as he tended to do. It wasn't until he'd all but reached her that he finally realized someone was there.

"Miss Granger!" he greeted jovially. "I was just thinking about you." He stopped in front of her. "What a wonderful coincidence, running into you like this."

Hermione awkwardly adjusted the strap of her bag on her shoulder. "It's... not a coincidence, actually," she tentatively told him. "I was wondering if I could have a word with you. Well, a few words, really." Dumbledore said nothing, only waited for her to continue. "In private," she elaborated self-consciously, glancing around the corridor.

"Oh, in private. Yes, of course. Why don't we step into my office?" He turned to the gargoyle. "Licorice stick," he said kindly. The thing came alive and leapt aside for its master, waiting as the wall split apart to reveal the familiar spiral staircase.

Dumbledore smiled and stepped forward, beginning to hum lightly again, bobbing his head to the up-tempo sound of his own voice. Hermione followed him up the stairs, to the oak door and then beyond.

It seemed like forever since she had been in the headmaster's quarters, though really it hadn't been so very long at all. The last time had been just after Voldemort's last attempt on Harry's life—and just before he had disappeared from their radar. The room was the same now as it had been then, the walls crowded with paintings and portraits, the surfaces cluttered with books, and papers, and magical contraptions. The sun still streamed in through the uncovered windows, lighting the room, shining on the dust that floated in the air until they seemed more like specks of glitter than dirt and filth.

The office, however, did seem much smaller than she remembered, as if the walls had closed in, leaving almost no room to move or even to breathe. But perhaps it was the circumstances that made it seem so airless.

"Please, have a seat," Dumbledore said as he worked his way to his side of the desk.

"Thank you."

Hermione slowly lowered herself into the guest chair that sat opposite his. She watched patiently as he situated the files in his arms onto the desk surface, waited silently as he made himself comfortable in his high-backed chair.

"So." He clapped his hands together. "How are the plans for the Halloween Dance coming along?"

Hermione tucked her hair behind one ear. "Everything's fine. All the arrangements have been made." She paused. "But, um, I'm actually not here on official business."

Dumbledore's eyebrows drew up. "Oh? I'm sorry, I just assumed." He tilted his head. "What exactly is it you wanted to talk to me about?"

Hermione looked down. "Well... it's kind of hard to say."

Dumbledore smiled thoughtfully. "Take your time," he told her.

Hermione kept her eyes down, reaching inside herself, drumming up the courage and the will to say the words. "The truth is, sir..." She swallowed. "It's Draco Malfoy."

Dumbledore folded his hands judiciously on his desk. "Draco Malfoy. I see." His brows furrowed. "Is there a problem in the dormitory? The two of you having some trouble?"

"Sort of." Hermione took a deep breath. "I know Draco and I haven't been the best of friends in the past. If anything, we've been the polar opposite. But..." She stared at her hands as they anxiously fiddled with the wrinkled pleat of her skirt, afraid that if she met his gaze she'd lose her nerve. "I think we've gotten used to each other in a way," she forced herself to continue. "There's a sort of understanding between us now, and… well, I have some information that I'm not quite sure what to do with." Dumbledore said nothing, only considered her thoughtfully, and she quickly scrambled to fill the silence. "If today were seven years ago, I wouldn't have a problem," she informed him. "I had a sense of what was right and what was wrong, and I never wavered. But... ever since you put me in that dormitory with him, things have become..."

"Yes, Miss Granger?" Dumbledore asked when she didn't continue.

Hermione looked up. "Less black and white."

The headmaster considered her. "How do you mean?" he asked.

Hermione breathed in. And then she released her skirt from its torture and folded her nervous hands together on her lap. "The truth is I care about him, sir," she admitted quietly. "And I'm afraid he's about to make a terrible mistake."

The old man's chin angled down, and he regarded her over his half-moon glasses. "What sort of mistake?" he asked her.

Hermione shook her head. "The kind there's no going back from," she asserted cryptically. Dumbledore said nothing, and she knew he was waiting for her to elaborate. "I'm afraid to say more," she told him hesitantly. "I don't want to get him into trouble."

"It's quite alright, my dear," he told her, a reassuring smile crossing his face. "I'm afraid I understand your meaning perfectly. I was wondering when one of you would decide to confide in me about this."

Hermione felt herself relax a little. "So you believe me, professor?" she asked, hesitant.

"Believe you? Of course I believe you! In fact, I've been aware of your and Mr. Malfoy's situation for quite some time now." His eyes glowed brighter as they watched Hermione's grow wide.

"You… have?"

"I have," he confirmed. His eyes twinkled, almost knowingly. "You'll find, Miss Granger, that there is very little I _don't_ know about when it comes to this school."

Hermione felt her cheeks heat. If he knew some, he probably knew _all._ Should she try to explain her current sleeping arrangements? Or the episode in the spare classroom? She opened her mouth, not sure of what to say or how to justify her behavior, when Dumbledore's words seeped in further. The words triggered a memory, one she'd almost let herself forget. In her mind she could see the cart of get-well cards and candy that had stood beside her sickbed. There had been only one note whose sender had been unaccounted for. _Only you decide_, the slanted script had read. _You __do_ _have a choice._ She hadn't let herself wonder whom the words were from. But suddenly everything was falling into place...

"The note… the one in the hospital wing. It was from you, wasn't it?"

Dumbledore's smile deepened.

Hermione sat confounded, trying to let the surprise seep in. It wasn't until many moments later that she looked back up at the professor. "So what do I do?" she asked him quietly. "Draco intends to follow this through to the end."

The end… _Death Eater…_

Tears filled her eyes for the first time. She held them at bay. There was no reason to cry, not now, not yet.

Dumbledore stood, and when he spoke, his voice was grave. "I'm afraid there _is_ nothing to do. We must let Fate take its course." He meandered across the room to where the tall bookshelves began, and started to push books aside, looking for something.

Hermione turned in her chair, facing Dumbledore's back with a frown. "But you said in that note that we _do _have a choice. That we decide our own fate."

The headmaster's focus seemed to be on the books, on rummaging through them. "We do and we don't," he said with a wave of his hand. "Fate is a very strange and mysterious thing."

He said the words casually, as if they made sense, but to Hermione they were a foreign language. "But you said that only I decide. Isn't it the same for him?"

Dumbledore looked over his shoulder. "You didn't _always _have a choice… did you, Hermione?" he asked meaningfully.

Hermione looked down. No, she hadn't had a choice. Her father had seen to that.

"So… this has to happen?" she asked sadly. She felt tears in her heart, but she held them from her eyes. "Draco doesn't have a choice?"

"His choice will come with time. Fate will see to that."

Hermione watched Dumbledore as he eagerly scoured the bookcase, humming to himself as he looked for whatever it was he wanted to find. "There's a vial of blood," she told his back. "Harry's seen it in his dreams." The sound of her voice was solemn, dead. "Draco will have to hurt an innocent person to get it, won't he?"

"Undoubtedly," came Dumbledore's muffled voice. He reached behind a row of books, searching blindly. "There will be much hurt, I'm afraid."

Hermione sighed, turning back in her seat, her shoulders slumping. And then she swallowed, stood. "Well, thank you, professor," she said softly, though she wasn't sure for what. "I should probably be getting to class now. I'm already late." She turned.

"Just a minute, Hermione," Dumbledore's soft voice halted her.

She turned back.

Dumbledore took a break from his hunt to look at his student. "That vial you mentioned a moment ago. The one in Harry's premonition…"

"Yes?"

He looked at her thoughtfully. "Whose blood do you think it is?"

The question caught Hermione completely off guard. "I… I don't know, sir," she answered hesitantly. "I don't know whose blood Voldemort would want."

The headmaster was already back searching through the shelves. "You're looking for answers in all the wrong places, Miss Granger," he told her. "Those are the questions for later."

Hermione could've sworn she heard a smile in his voice, but his back was to her, so she had no way of knowing for sure. "So... I should be asking…?"

"Whose blood does Draco Malfoy _not want_ him to want?"

Hermione frowned, shook her head. "I'm not sure I understand," she said.

"Whom does Mr. Malfoy care about enough to resent his Task? To want to change his fate?" Dumbledore elaborated, reaching far back behind the books of one particular shelf. "Whom does he _care about_?" he simplified even further. And then he cried out, "Ah ha!" in triumph, pulling out a darkened jar of something from behind the dusty rows.

Hermione looked down. "I don't know," she said softly. "He's not the kind to wear his emotions on his sleeve." Dumbledore smiled encouragingly and motioned for her to think. "A family member, perhaps? Or a friend of his?" she guessed. The headmaster nodded, smiled, but Hermione couldn't return it. She wracked her brain for the people who might truly _matter_ to Draco—and a certain sloe-eyed Slytherin beauty materialized in her mind. She shook her head. "But which friend?"

"Which friend, indeed?" Dumbledore replied, tongue in cheek.

She frowned, trying to comprehend what he was telling her. It registered in delay.

"Me?" she whispered, unbelieving.

"You," Dumbledore echoed seriously. He walked to her, unscrewing the lid of the jar.

"_My _blood?" she asked. Her legs suddenly couldn't hold her, and she let herself fall back into the seat.

"Your blood," the older man confirmed. He watched her dark brown eyes go wary, put on a comforting smile and offered her the jar. "Sherbet lemon?"

* * *

Hermione left the Head's office what seemed like a hundred years—and a hundred sherbet lemons—later. The candy hadn't managed to comfort her, and the sugar had only succeeded in making her even shakier than before. Restless, she headed down the stairs—but instead of hurrying to the Potions classroom, she found herself wandering in the opposite direction.

She walked aimlessly, having no destination in mind. Her legs carried her, independent of her brain, until she found herself at the base of the cliffs, where the dark waters of the loch rolled into the rocky shore. She stood there, still, hands hugging her upper arms, eyes taking in the scenery, the silence, wishing some of its peace would seep in.

She rubbed warmth into her arms.

_Her blood._ Voldemort wanted _her_ blood.

She smiled humorlessly. And she had to let Fate take its course. She had to let Draco drain her...

Hermione looked out onto the water, watching it sparkle like a sea of sequins in the sunlight.

He didn't want to do it—he had all but said that. At least she had that much to hold on to. He cared about her. And that meant he wouldn't go through with it... right?

_I'm going to do it, Hermione…_

He wouldn't hurt her. He _couldn't_… could he?

_I don't have a choice…_

There was a boulder on the edge of the water, and Hermione lowered herself onto its flat top. She watched silently as two tiny water striders darted along the water's surface, playing some sort of lighthearted game. How she wished she could be like them—light, easy, simple. How she wished she had their power to walk on water—their power to make a miracle.

That's what she needed now. A miracle.

She had wanted to know what to expect, how to prepare, who to protect herself from. She hadn't wanted to believe she would need to protect herself from _him_.

_Draco will have to hurt an innocent person to get it, won't he?_

Hermione had actually let herself believe that together they could fix this. That if only Draco would trust her, they could make everything right. But she was beginning to see now that it was much more complicated than that. And no matter how it ended, she somehow knew it would break her heart.

_There will be much hurt, I'm afraid…_

The raw pain was killing her even now. The tears she'd held at bay in Dumbledore's office were back, creating a layer of moisture over her soft brown eyes. How could Fate be so careless, so cruel? Why had life taught her to feel again if all she was destined for was pain?

Why had Draco saved her if he was destined to kill her in the end?

Hermione watched the water striders as they scurried in one direction, then another, and then out of sight. She sighed.

What should she do? Should she fight? Or should she trust Dumbledore? _Trust Fate?_

She looked up to the sky and let the tears fall.

* * *

Draco kept a watchful eye on the entrance of the Potions classroom, waiting for Hermione to finally emerge. But the hands of the clock slowly floated around the white face, marking the first five, then ten, then fifteen minutes of class.

He could hear Snape barking orders, commanding them to assemble into their assigned groups. He impatiently watched the door, looking for his partner. But she didn't come—not as the students rose from their seats and pushed their way around the room, not even after they had all resituated themselves in their proper places.

"Malfoy." Snape's curt voice had him bringing his head back around. "Where is your partner?"

Draco pasted on a tight smile. "I don't know."

The professor turned his cool dark eyes to Harry, who, like Draco, had distracted eyes glued on the door. "Potter?" he asked the boy expectantly.

"She... must be running late," Harry said. He shared a worried glance with Ron, stood from his seat. "Maybe I should try to find her—"

"Maybe you should stay in your seat and go on about your business," Snape snapped. "Miss Granger is perfectly capable of finding her own way here." His lips tilted up into a satisfied smile. "And when she does, she will be happy to learn that she's lost ten points from Gryffindor for being late," he added. He turned to his favorite pupil. "In the meantime, Draco, I trust you'll be able to manage on your own."

Draco looked away from the empty doorway and nodded once.

The lesson resumed, seemingly as usual. But it wasn't usual, not without her. He held the edge of the table, willing himself to stay still, trying to keep from jumping out of his seat and out of the classroom in search of her. The professor at the head of the room was waving his wand, drawing circles into the air, casting some spell or other over his steaming cauldron. There was a popping sound, and the class dispelled their oos and ahs, but Draco wasn't paying attention enough to know why. His complete focus was on Hermione, on wracking his brain for all the reasons why she wouldn't be there.

None of the ones he came up with were very comforting. In fact, they had him even more concerned.

He practically vaulted himself out of his seat when the class was finally over. He was out of the room in seconds, walking down the corridor with long, purposeful steps, despite the fact that he wasn't exactly sure where he was headed.

He decided on the Great Hall, where an early lunch was being served. He got to the entrance and skidded to a stop before calmly entering the giant hall.

Both the Gryffindor and Slytherin tables were next to empty; most students hadn't _run_ like Draco had to get there. Still, he could see a group at the far end of the middle table. He recognized Hermione's friends, Seamus Finnegan and Neville Longbottom. Across from them was the youngest Weasley.

But there was no Hermione Granger with them...

Draco felt more than saw someone come up beside him. There was silence for a moment or two, and then the person spoke. "You practically ran out of class." Pansy's sultry voice was a purr in his ear. "You were out of the room before I had the chance to catch up."

Draco ignored her.

Pansy followed his gaze, finding the Gryffindor group. "Why are you watching them?" she asked him interestedly. Draco clenched his jaw, but didn't answer. "You're looking for the mudblood, aren't you?" she said with a knowing smile.

Draco turned sharply. "And why would I be doing that?" he asked dangerously. Did she know? Had Blaise told her? Had he been so obvious that she'd figured it out?

Pansy's brows furrowed. "For your Task," she supplied, crossing her arms expectantly. "Why else?"

Draco tensed. "Lower your damn voice," he growled, his voice sinking a thousand venomous teeth into her. "Why do you think that everything is your business?" He looked around them, conscious of prying eyes and ears. "You shouldn't know about this. It's none of your concern," he whispered harshly.

Pansy narrowed her eyes. "Your _mother _told me," she replied, not bothering to whisper. A calculating smile curved her lips. "_She_ seems to think it _is _my concern."

Draco's hands fisted at his side. For the first time in his life, they itched to hit a girl. "We're not married yet, Pansy," he reminded her coldly.

Pansy's smile turned almost wolfish. "But we will be."

Draco said nothing. With haunted eyes, he looked back to the Gryffindor table. Hermione still hadn't appeared.

His jaw clenched. "Keep your mouth shut about the Task," he said to Pansy. He was walking away before she had the chance to reply.

He made his way to his own dormitory, trying not to walk with the sense of urgency he felt inside. He got there, whispering the password, crossing the threshold. "Hermione?" he asked, coming into the room. He was met with empty space and silence.

Frustrated, he checked his own room, then the bathroom, and then hers. "Hermione?" he called, fear briefly touching his voice. Was someone hurting her? Was she hurting herself?

Draco's eyes fell to the balcony door. Was she jumping off of buildings again? Trying to… trying to… He couldn't even think the words.

He pushed the door open and moved out onto the platform. Time seemed to rewind. "Hermione?" Like the last time, he looked out into the distance, searching for an answer…

This time he found one, found _her_, before his eyes could fall to the cliffs below. She was off in the distance, a lone figure on the banks. She sat on a rock at the water's edge, her back facing him, her long hair blowing in the wind.

Draco let the relief wash over him, but it was immediately cut off, suffocated by the quick chokehold of anger. What was she _thinking_, skipping lunch, skipping _class_? What was she doing, going off where no one could find her?

He went to his room and retrieved his broomstick. He mounted, speeding down to where she was. If she thought she could get away with running off like that, she had another thing coming. He was going to give her a piece of his mind and—

The anger melted away as he saw the first gleam of tears. He dropped the broom, immediately going to her. He bent, took her face into both of his hands, tilting it up to look at his. "What's the matter, baby?" he asked seriously, his thumbs wiping the moisture from her cheeks. New droplets fell from her brown eyes at the endearment.

Draco was shaken by the broken look in her eyes. With a silent curse, he dropped to the rock behind her, pulling her back against his chest and wrapping his arms around her. She curled into him, and he could feel the warmth of her tears as they fell against his neck. "Don't cry," he soothed, rocking her back and forth. "Don't cry."

Hermione's heart was breaking even more. This was the tender Draco, the warm, caring Draco, the one she believed in, the one she trusted. The one she was desperately afraid would betray that trust for darkness, for blood.

_Her _blood.

It was Fate, wasn't it? That's what Dumbledore had said. And then, it would be over. _They _would be over.

And for a moment she wished the cold Draco would return. Maybe he would make it easier to say goodbye, to walk away. Maybe she could learn to hate _that_ Draco again.

But that moment passed, and she cast the wish aside. She didn't want anything—nothing but to be in his arms, safe and warm, to hear his voice gentle against her ear, telling her that everything would turn out alright. Because when he said it, she could believe it. Even if it wasn't true, she could believe him.

He eased her away, turning her shoulders to face him, pushing her hair from her face and wiping the tearstains from her cheeks. She looked down, and he curled his index finger under her chin, lifting her eyes to meet his gaze. "What are these for?" he asked of the tears.

Hermione shook her head, sniffing.

"Tell me. What are these for," he pressed, his gaze searching hers.

"You," she whispered.

Draco's hands stilled. "For me? Or _because_ of me?"

Hermione looked away. "I don't know," she admitted. "Both, I guess."

Draco's jaw tightened. He dropped his hands.

"It's just that I've gotten used to the way things are..." She looked up at him through wet lashes. "Between us," she finished hesitantly. "I never want to go back to the way it was before." She saw his eyes darken, saw his jaw work. She looked away. "In the back of my mind I let myself believe that we would… we would…"

"We would what, Hermione?" Draco asked tensely.

Hermione looked down at her hands, unable to meet his silver gaze. "Be together," she whispered finally.

It was the first time that either of them had dared to put some kind of words to what they were. Draco had thought not saying the words, not hearing them, would somehow make it easier. But they _were _together, their _souls _were together, words or no words. He had known that, had felt it inside since the first night they'd slept in each other's arms.

He _loved _her, words or no words. And being away from her was going to kill him. And the trails of her tears told him it was going to kill her, too.

"Look at me," Draco commanded softly.

She didn't.

"Look at me, Hermione."

New tears were already forming in the honey depths of her eyes as she turned them up to look at his. One lone drop fell, and he tenderly smoothed it away. "So did I," he admitted quietly, his voice a whisper against the wind.


	11. Dance with Me

_Saving You Summary—DMHG. Hermione Granger has a secret, one that's literally killing her: she has been suffering extreme abuse at the hands of her father. Who will come to her rescue? What if the only one who can is Draco Malfoy? Rated M for sexual content (including rape), suicide ideation, and violence._

_Disclaimer—Most of the characters and a lot of the setting belong to J.K. Rowling. The rest is mine._

A/N: This chapter is dedicated to the victims of 9/11 and their families. Rest in peace. First updated Sep. 11, 2009. Last updated Mar. 10, 2010.

* * *

**:::Dance with Me:::**

Days passed. The pressure of the future, the uncertainty of it, weighed heavily on both Hermione and Draco. November 1st loomed like an execution date over both of their heads, and though they tried to live despite the dread, they couldn't escape the growing awareness that time was running out.

It was late in the night. Hermione was curled in close against him, her head lying comfortably on his shoulder. Their hands were joined together and resting over his heart. Draco could feel it pounding, the solemn beat of a war drum, and wondered if she could feel it, too. He could smell her hair, that light, floral scent that had become so familiar. Though he'd slept without that scent for most of his life, he wasn't sure he'd ever grow used to not having it once it was gone again.

She was asleep. He could hear her slow, even breathing through the silence, the sound methodic, melodic, like the whisper of the wind against the autumn leaves. But Draco was wide-awake, and not even the sweet sound of her breath breezing in and out or the feel of her body next to his could lull him to sleep. He was too aware of the nothing that awaited him in the coming days. Brief flashes of his future kept flickering before his eyes, and everything he saw was black and bleak and cold as ice. It chilled him even now, knowing that in a few short days, he'd no longer be able to hold her like this—that he'd no longer be able to protect her, that he'd be a danger to her instead.

His fingers tightened around hers, his thumb caressing her wrist in circles. The skin there was smooth, soft, like stroking the petal of rose. He looked down to where their hands were joined, to the place where her palm flowed into her forearm. There was a tiny blue vein running through, barely visible against her translucent skin. He rubbed his thumb across it, wondering. How many scars sliced through it underneath the spell? Had she already cut there? Or would his slash be the first?

The thought that underneath the magic, one scar would be his doing had sickness churning in Draco's stomach. He hated that he would have to hurt her, that he would have to add to the lines that crisscrossed over her body—hated that once he did, it would make him no better than the sick bastard who had provoked all the other ones.

"What are you doing?" Hermione's voice was whisper-soft and serious.

Draco didn't look away from her wrist to see if her eyes had opened. It took a long time for him to answer, and when he did, his voice was low.

"Deciding," he told her ominously.

Hermione tilted her chin to look up at him. His steel-grey eyes were intense on the skin at her wrist, as if trying to see past it to the flesh underneath.

Or maybe trying to see past the magic to where the jagged skin was raised and indented.

_What_ had he decided… about her blood, about _her_? She didn't ask. Though she wanted—needed—to know, she didn't press him for more.

Slowly, she lowered her head back down to his shoulder, closing her eyes again.

The light stroking paused. "Aren't you going to ask me… what it is I have to decide?"

Hermione kept her eyes closed. "If you were going to tell me then you would have already," she said with a sigh. There was a pause. "I'd rather not talk about it, anyway," she added in a whisper.

There was a still, silent moment, and then she felt his thumb continue its light exploration of her skin. "Neither would I," she heard him say, just as soft.

Minutes passed by in solemn silence. Draco shifted, letting his chin come to rest against her hair. Her breathing had evened out again, and deepened, as if with sleep. "Are you still awake?" he asked hesitantly after a while.

Hermione's kept her brown eyes closed. "Yes."

Draco breathed in, and then out, inhaling her feminine scent. "What are you thinking about?"

Hermione felt herself smile. "You," she whispered back. And then the smile died on her lips. Her eyes opened again. "The future."

She felt his head turn away, felt his eyes leave her skin to stare through the glass and at the stars. "It's about to happen," he acknowledged after a moment, his voice emotionless.

Yes. The future was about to happen. Everything was about to end. What they had, what they wanted… all of it was quickly slipping through their fingers like sand. And there was nothing they could do but watch helplessly as the world fell from their grasp and slid down the drain forever.

Hermione looked up at him, her honey eyes trying to meet his silver ones through the darkness. "Don't talk about it," she begged him softly. "Don't think about it."

Maybe that would make it go away.

"I can't not."

"Try." Hermione extracted her hand from Draco's grasp and brought it up to his face, pushing a strand of white-blond hair from his eyes. "Just pretend." _Pretend this isn't happening. Pretend that there's no tomorrow. Pretend that you'll never hurt me, that you'll hold me like this forever. Pretend that this moment will never end, that we'll never have to say goodbye._

_Just pretend…_

Draco shook his head, wishing he could. But the future was quickly becoming the present. And it wasn't something he could ignore. It wasn't something he could wish away.

Seeing the conflict inside of him, Hermione smiled sadly. "Just hold me," she commanded.

He did, taking her hand again, wrapping her tighter in his embrace.

Still, a question hung in the air above him, plaguing the silence, preventing both of them from sleep...

_Would he ever hold her this way again?_

_

* * *

_

Harry was in hell.

He'd always known Ginny's blue eyes could be deadly. He'd seen them shoot bullets hundreds of times—at a prissy girl who dared to try to talk down to her; at an opposing Beater who sent a Bludger her way; at a teacher who returned her exam with a poor mark—and now at a boy who had finally tried the last of her eternal patience.

She hadn't spoken to him since their confrontation in the Great Hall, had barely even spared him a glance. When she _did_ condescend to look his way, it was with the wariest, most lightless of looks, full of accusation and bitterness and... something else. Something he couldn't quite pinpoint. Something that looked uncomfortably similar to disappointment.

He'd thought he'd wait it out, give her some time to cool off. But one day had turned into two. Two had turned into what seemed like a _lifetime_. He'd never gone this long without speaking to her, without seeing her smile charmingly his way. She had always been his rock—whatever was wrong, whatever war was being waged against him, she had always been right there, cracking a joke or whispering a reassuring word, trying to make him forget, trying to soothe his worries away. She had been the comforting confidant, the sassy, sweet sunshine that always brightened his cloudy days. She had never withheld from him—not anything, but especially not herself.

And he'd never realized how dependent he was on her unconditional support until she'd suddenly snatched it away.

He hunted her down before class, intent on sorting this all out. Things couldn't go on this way. _He_ couldn't go on this way—without her.

He found her leaning against the wall in one busy corridor, laughing conspiratorially with a soft-smiling Hermione and the beautiful Gwen Carver. But when she looked up and met his gaze, the smile immediately slipped from her face and the light fell away from her eyes. "I should get going," she told her friends dully as he approached. "You know how McGonagall is about tardiness." She threw the shoulder strap of her bag over her head and strode forward—past Harry without a word.

Harry turned to Hermione, helplessly held up his hands. "Go after her," she mouthed, motioning him away with a wave of her hand.

Harry looked at the ceiling for a second before whirling and chasing the redheaded girl down. "Ginny!" he called. She didn't stop, didn't even glance over her shoulder. "Come on, Ginny." He caught up, coming around her, halting her in her tracks. "Just wait a sec."

Ginny looked at him listlessly. "Harry Potter wants me to wait. What a surprise."

The words had Harry shaking his head. "I can't do this," he told her exasperatedly.

"What is 'this' exactly?"

"This!" Harry said, motioning emphatically between them. "The tension, the snappy comments, the cold shoulder—I could take them from anyone else but you." She didn't soften, didn't even answer, only continued to at him with those blue—and unusually unsympathetic—eyes. "We've never not talked before," he tried to reason with her. He dropped his hands, defeated. "I don't like it," he admitted.

It was meant to be a concession, but to Ginny, the words were just a reminder of why she'd become fed up in the first place. Their relationship always had to be on _his_ terms. When she didn't like the way things were between them, she was supposed to just let it go, supposed to just paste on a smile, grit her teeth and bear it. But when the situation was reversed, and _he_ was unhappy, she was supposed to jump through hoops to make him comfortable again.

Well, she was tired of being the uncomfortable one. She was tired to being understanding and supportive—she was tired of being _patient_. She couldn't wait anymore. She couldn't _settle_ anymore. There was so much inside of her that she had to offer. She deserved someone who saw that, who _respected _that, someone who would do anything to keep that in his life. Someone who would give that much of himself in return. Half of Harry wasn't good enough anymore. 'Just friends' wasn't good enough. It was all or nothing. It was all up to him.

And he still didn't get it.

She shook her head. "I have to get to class." She began to walk around him, renewed purpose hastening her step.

Harry quickly followed. "Come on, Gin. Don't walk away." He walked alongside her, trying to keep up with her hurried stride. "Talk to me," he begged.

Ginny refused to stop, refused to look his way, to look anywhere but straight ahead. "I told you to come find me when you figured things out," she stated edgily, "and nothing about the way you've approached this conversation indicates to me that you've done so. I have to get to class."

Harry cut in front of her again, stopping her in her tracks. He put his hands up, cautioning her, trying to melt the frost in her eyes. "Look... I've been thinking about what you said," he told her seriously.

Ginny's eyes narrowed speculatively. "And?" she asked.

"And..." He furrowed his brows, took a deep breath. "I'm not blind, Ginny," he informed her quietly. "Just because I don't talk about something doesn't mean I don't know it's there." He looked into her hard blue eyes, beyond the ice to where the ocean depths were clear and enchanting. "It doesn't mean I don't feel it, too."

Ginny swallowed. "What exactly are you trying to say?" she asked him.

Harry looked at her. "That I'm sorry," he said at last.

"For what?"

Harry shrugged a reluctant shoulder. "For not being able to be there for you in the capacity you want me to be."

Ginny's gaze deadened at the words. "Oh," she said dully. She shook her head. "So that's it, then? That's what you chased me down to tell me? That you mulled it over and decided you're just not available?"

Harry frowned. "It sounds so cold when you put it like that."

"It isn't?" she demanded.

"Not at all," he tried to say. She only smiled crisply, causing him to avert his gaze. He brought it back to hers a second later. "It's just that we're already so close, Gin," he tried to reason. "Why ruin a good thing?"

"Because it could be great," she told him meaningfully. He only looked away again, bringing the edge back to her voice. "If you want to be alone, that's your prerogative," she informed him. "But don't expect me to be here pining after you. I'm going to go on living my life—with or without you."

"Good. That's what I want you to do," he replied, but the words lacked conviction.

Ginny looked at him doubtfully. "You really want me to be with somebody else, Harry? Because I can, you know."

Harry only shrugged one noncommittal shoulder.

But Ginny wasn't about to let him off that easy. "Dean asked me to the dance at breakfast," she pressed, watching carefully for his reaction. "I told him he'd have his answer by tonight." Harry said nothing, but that muscle in his jaw tensed, sending a wave of empowerment through her. "So, you see, I do have other options," she told him. "Whether I consider them or not is completely up to you."

Harry shook his head. "I wish it was that easy. But it's a lot more complicated than that."

Ginny let out an exasperated sound. "Then let me _simplify_ it for you, Harry," she snapped. "I'm moving on," she told him. "It's now or never." And with that, she pushed past him and began to walk away

Harry watched her back as she stormed off, watched her hair bounce against her shoulders, watched her legs stride purposefully away. He could feel the distance between them growing with each new step. What had been merely a crack before seemed now like a chasm, widening, separating them further and further from each other.

She meant it, he realized in sudden panic. She would move on if he didn't stop her. This space between them would be permanent if he didn't close it.

And she would belong to someone else.

The unwanted thought had him suddenly desperate. "Come to the dance with me," he blurted out before she could get too far away.

The words stopped Ginny in her tracks. Slowly, cautiously, she turned back to face him. "What did you say?"

Harry came forward until he was right in front of her again. "Come to the dance with me," he said again, quieter.

Ginny looked uncertainly into his eyes. "You want to go... together?"

Harry nodded. "Yeah." And then he swallowed. "As friends."

The dare-to-hope look died down in Ginny's eyes. "As friends," she repeated dismally. She pasted on that flat, humorless smile. "Thanks for the offer, but I'm going to have to pass." She turned and began to walk away.

Panic resurfaced inside of Harry, and he grabbed her hand, halting her before she could get away. "Ginny." She dutifully paused, her blue eyes dull. Her hand was limp and defeated in his. "There's too much at stake," he told her, trying to make her understand. "It _can't_ be now. But..." He shook his head, looked down to where there hands were joined together. "I... I don't want it to be never," he confessed after a moment. He looked up again. "I know you're frustrated. But please... just give me a little more time." His hand tightened around hers, and his eyes reached deep into her dark blue ones. "Wait," he pleaded meaningfully.

Ginny looked down at where his hand clutched desperately to hers. She knew she shouldn't let herself be moved, knew she shouldn't let herself be trapped into compromising for even one more day.

But how could she not, when his dark green eyes were begging her to understand, begging her to stay, to wait just a little bit longer...

Ginny turned her shoulders to face him fully. She took a deep breath. "Swear to me it won't be forever," she commanded quietly. She looked up. "Swear to me it won't be for nothing."

Harry swallowed. "I swear."

One long moment passed. And then she nodded. "Okay," she said finally. "You have yourself a date."

Harry smiled thinly, half in relief—and, secretly, half in regret. "So do you," he said. "See you after school."

This time he didn't try to stop her as she turned and began to walk away. He watched her back until it disappeared around a corner and out of sight, afraid that he'd just done a very selfish thing...

Afraid he'd made a promise he couldn't keep.

* * *

There was nothing Draco or Hermione could do to keep the days before the dance from flying by. It seemed like no time at all had passed before Halloween arrived, bringing with it all the dread of the day to follow after.

Hermione was greeted by a girlie squeal as she entered the Great Hall that morning. "Mione! Oh, Mione, isn't it wonderful?" Ginny gushed, hugging her close, then taking her hands and beginning to waltz with her. "The Halloween Dance is _finally _here—and there is going to be dancing, and music, and costumes..."

Hermione laughed, but the sound was bland, grim. She couldn't be excited. Her thoughts weren't on the dance the Prefects had helped her to arrange. Instead, they dwelled on tomorrow, when Draco would leave her to fly off into the abyss, never to return—at least, never to her.

_It's about to happen… It's about to happen…_ The words were all around her, as if two little goblins sat on her shoulders, singing them in her ears. The truth had never felt so real as it did now. In the back of her mind, she hadn't let herself believe that this day would actually come. She hadn't let herself believe that the philosophical tomorrow that everyone talked about would actually _be_ _tomorrow_. The future was here, and the outlook was grim. And it was all Hermione could do not to break down in tears this very moment.

Thankfully, the redheaded girl was too excited to notice. "And we finally both have our ideal dates," she laughed, squeezing Hermione's hands almost painfully. And then her smile faltered. "Well, it _would_ be ideal, anyway, if only Harry hadn't made it a point to stamp 'just friends' all over everything."

"It's still ideal," Hermione assured her, smiling faintly to hide the fact that she was less than enthusiastic about her own date.

"It's the best it can be for right now," Ginny agreed. "So I've decided to be ecstatic." She began to twirl around with Hermione again.

"Yes, I can see that." The words came out a little wearier and a little more annoyed than she had intended. Still, Ginny was too wrapped up in her happy little Halloween-Dance world to pick up on it.

"You have to let me do your hair. And your makeup," she was saying, linking arms with her friend as they began to walk to the Gryffindor table. "What are you going as? Are you and Brandon going to match? It's all right if you aren't—it's kind of cheesy, anyway, and Harry and I aren't going to match. You'll meet me in my room, won't you? You can make me look all pretty, and—"

"Of course," Hermione cut in, stopping the rant before it could start. "I'll meet you in your dormitory and you can do whatever you like with my hair." She sighed, a bitter smile forming. "You can shave it off for all I care."

Ginny paused, looking amused. "Shave it off?" she asked dryly. "Oh, Mione, I know you don't like these big, noisy affairs, but I think tonight is going to be really fun."

Hermione looked down. "I'm sure you're right," she assured her friend.

Ginny smiled brightly. "I'm sure I am, too. After all, I practically planned the thing—and Ginny Weasley _never_ throws a boring party."

They took their place at the table, right between Ron and Harry. As soon as they were seated, Ron began a rant of his own, talking Hermione's ear off about one petty problem or another.

"... and Seamus snatched Gwen Carver right from under my nose. I went up to him and I was like, 'Mate, I just _told _you _I _was gonna ask Gwen.' And he was like, 'Well, I guess _I_ got to her first.' And I was like, 'Well, _I _am never speaking to you again!' And then he laughed. _Laughed_, I tell you!"

Hermione nodded, tried to listen, but her mind was in that faraway place. Where would Draco be tomorrow? Where would _she _be? Would everything turn out all right—or would it turn back to the way it had been before?

She looked over at the Slytherin table, hoping to catch a glimpse of him. He was there, having what looked like a tense discussion with his friend, Blaise Zabini. The ever-present Pansy Parkinson had her arm linked through his, and though they were each engaged in separate conversations, the Slytherin Princess kept a steady hold on her prince's arm.

Envy was a heavy burden, just one more Hermione had to add to the load.

She willed Draco to look at her, to meet her eyes, but he didn't.

"Hel-_lo_? Mione, are you even _listening_ to me?" Ron waved a hand in front of her eyes, bringing her out of her thoughts.

"What? Oh. Sure."

"God, Hermione. I'm trying to talk to you and you're off in outer space!" Ron scowled, shaking his head. "Is the whole _world _against me? Really, I don't even know _who _my friends are anymore!" His ocean-blue eyes rolled dramatically.

"No one cares, Ronald," Ginny put in easily. She looked at him pointedly. "And don't kid yourself. Gwen would've said no, anyway."

Harry laughed at that, and normally Hermione would have, too. But she didn't. His green eyes looked at her funnily. "Hey, Mione, you okay?" he asked her, reaching around Ginny to gently touch her shoulder.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Just… thinking, is all." When she saw the concern on Harry's face, she made an attempt at a comforting smile.

Harry _wasn't_ comforted, but he let it go.

"Hey, Hermione!" a voice called. Hermione turned to find Brandon Madison approaching. She wished she could smile, wished she could be happy, but the words she'd said to Draco rang clear in her mind.

_Brandon and I are only friends. That's all we'll ever be._

"Hi," was all she could summon to say back.

He opened his mouth to speak, but at first nothing came out, as if he was grasping for something to say. "We're, uh… still meeting at the bottom of the stairwell, right?" he asked lamely.

"Yes."

He waited, but she didn't say more. "We… never really got a chance to talk about costumes," he continued. "You didn't want to match, did you?"

"No."

Again he waited, but again she didn't go on. "I was thinking I would go as a vampire," he informed her with a little shrug.

"How original." It was Ron who interjected, his narrowed eyes sizing up Hermione's date. Harry's emeralds were doing the same, letting the Ravenclaw Seeker know that they hadn't decided about him yet, and that he better watch his step when it came to their friend.

Brandon seemed unfazed by the scrutiny. "I stick to the classics," he replied with a friendly smile. He turned back to Hermione. "Hope that doesn't clash too much with whatever you're wearing," he went on.

"It won't."

Brandon frowned. "That's good." There was an awkward silence. "Okay, so…" He looked around at her friends. He was more uncomfortable than they'd ever seen him. "I'll see you then."

Hermione knew she should feel guilty, but for whatever reason, no regret came. Still, she pasted on a smile and said, "Yeah. See you then." He nodded, smiled, and headed out of the room.

The group watched him go before turning back to their friend. "God, Mione, he's a _dream_," Ginny said admiringly. "_Such_ a gentleman. Not like these two." She waved a dismissive hand towards her own date and her brother. "Definitely one of the better ones this school has to offer."

One of the better ones, Hermione thought bitterly. She looked over at the Slytherin table. But not the best…

"You don't seem too excited," Harry observed, one eyebrow raised.

"That's one way to put it. Damn, Mione, you practically shut the man down," Ron put in. "It was very amusing," he added with a wide smile.

Harry's eyes narrowed. "I thought you liked him."

Hermione forced a laugh. "I do," she replied, trying to sound convincing.

"Really?" Harry asked dryly.

"Yes, really," she insisted. When the boys sent her those narrowed gazes, she sighed. "I just have other things on my mind."

Ron's brows furrowed. Those words were like a red flag, waving before a rainstorm. "_What _other things?" he asked, crossing his arms expectantly. "What's going on, Mione?"

Ginny put a defensive arm around her friend, shielding her from the brute force of Ronald Weasley and Harry Potter before they could start their emotional assault. "Are you deaf? She said she's fine! Can't you leave her alone for a _single minute_?" she asked. "God, you're always spoiling everyone's good mood with your incessant questions and your _damn_ overprotectiveness."

"And _you're _always using Hermione as a reason to butt in and make big pish-posh speeches!" Ron said back, annoyed. "You have to make a dramatic scene out of everything!"

Ginny smiled with dry humor. "I have _no idea _where I got that from," she stated with a roll of her eyes.

Harry was chuckling again, and Ron found his frown easing into a reluctant smile.

But Hermione's mind was far away again. She never heard his clever comeback.

* * *

Out of the corner of his eye, Draco could see Madison standing at the Gryffindor table, talking to Hermione. Maybe the dolt hadn't _heard_ him the last time they'd spoken. Maybe Madison hadn't understood what the wand pressed into his stomach had meant.

Or was the git really dumb enough to challenge him?

"We'll talk about this later," Draco informed his friend suddenly, extracting himself from Pansy's iron grip and standing from the table. "I have something I need to finish."

Blaise's dark eyes followed Draco's line of sight and dulled as they found Brandon Madison.

"That poof from Ravenclaw?" Vincent Crabbe asked, looking over his shoulder in confusion.

"What did he do?" Goyle asked curiously, watching as Brandon made his way out of the room.

Draco's jaw clenched. "He crossed a line," he answered vaguely, but truthfully, his voice deadly calm.

Crabbe whistled low. "Bon voyage, Madison," he laughed with a shake of his head.

Draco shared one last glance with Blaise. The darker boy looked less than pleased, but he held his tongue, letting his eyes do the talking for him. Draco understood what they were saying, but followed Madison out of the room anyway.

"Madison!" he called. Brandon glanced over his shoulder, but continued to walk. Draco's temper flared. He caught up to the other boy, grabbing him by the collar and slamming him up against the wall. "Maybe you didn't hear me," he said dangerously. "I was calling your name."

For someone who was being all but attacked, Brandon remained surprisingly cool. "Were you? I didn't notice."

Draco held him hard against the wall with a single hand against his throat. "Well I hope I'm making myself heard now." His voice and gaze were filled with venom. "I told you to stay away from Hermione Granger."

Brandon laughed despite the hand holding his throat. "I don't remember you saying anything of the sort," he said with a smile.

The sight of it fueled the flames inside of Draco. "My wand said it for me," he said, jabbing the tip of it into Brandon's gut. "Are you starting to remember?"

Another short laugh. "You're not the only one with a wand, Malfoy," the other man reminded him.

"I'm the only one who knows how to use it. And I will." The words were a promise, dark and intense. "Don't push me."

Brandon gritted his teeth when the wand jabbed harder into his stomach. Still, he forced himself to smile. "God, you really do fancy her, don't you?" he asked, strained, amused. "I know you're not one for fidelity and all that, Malfoy. But aren't you supposed to be with Pansy."

Draco's jaw clenched because it was true. He _was_ supposed to be with Pansy.

Brandon's smile grew. "Which means Hermione Granger is fair game," he concluded.

Draco's hand itched to rearrange the damn whelp's face. "Stay. Away. From her." Each word was annunciated harshly. "Understand?"

The other boy didn't answer. After one tense moment, Draco let him go and slowly began to back away.

"Don't worry, Malfoy." Madison's voice came just as Draco turned. "I'm not like you. I'd never steal another bloke's girl," he called to his back. "Which is why I plan to leave _Pansy_ alone."

The smart-alack words, the defiance they signified, caused Draco's hands to fist until his knuckles were white. His instincts told him to turn back around, to beat the bastard until he agreed to leave _Hermione_ alone, but he forced himself to continue on his way.

* * *

Hermione was attacked by Ginny directly after her last class.

"Party. In my room. Now," she said in short, excited sentences. "Come on, Mione."

"Wait, wait, wait!" she interrupted, stopping Ginny from dragging her off to Gryffindor Tower. "My costume is in my room."

A little pout formed on the younger girl's lips. "But you said—"

"If you'll just let me go get it, I'll meet you there—at 'the party'," she finished, unraveling Ginny's arm from around her. "If that's okay," she added.

Ginny's pout quickly flashed to a smile. "Hurry up!" she commanded, and quickly pecked Hermione's cheek before bouncing off.

Hermione couldn't help the indulgent smile that crossed her face, but it faded as soon as Ginny disappeared from sight. With a sigh, she made her way to her own dormitory, deliberately moving slowly. Maybe if she went slowly enough, time would stand still and tomorrow would never come.

She walked through her common room to her bedroom, grabbing an old gym bag she'd had stuffed in the bottom drawer of her armoire. Inside was an old gown that her mother had worn in her younger days. Hermione hadn't looked at the thing since she'd stumbled upon it and impulsively packed it at the end of the summer.

Standing again, she headed towards the secret passage that ran from her room to the Gryffindor dormitories.

"Saw you with Madison at breakfast."

The familiar voice had her halting. She turned, looking into the heart-stopping grey eyes that she had fallen in love with. "He wanted to talk about the dance," she explained with a shrug. "Costumes and such."

Draco leaned back against the wall, his warm gaze roaming over her. "What are you going as?"

"It's a secret," she said with a soft smile. "You'll just have to be surprised."

Draco smiled a little at that. But it vanished almost as quickly as it had appeared. "You'll be with _him _all night, I suppose," he mused bitterly.

Hermione looked down. "And you'll be with Pansy," she reminded him.

"Yes. I'll be with Pansy." A short silence fell between them. "I'll see you there, then," he said after a while.

Hermione smiled. "Only if you can recognize me," she told him softly, wanting to cheer him, wanting to comfort herself.

But he didn't smile. "I'll recognize you," he assured her.

Hermione nodded and turned back to the door. Rotating the key and twisting the handle, she eased the door open. She looked over her shoulder, her eyes going to the far wall, but he was already gone.

* * *

Draco slipped out of the room, unable to watch her disappear first.

The night was closing in, and when it was over, the day would come, bringing with it a future he couldn't escape.

A future that didn't include her.

He stormed into his own room, opening a dresser drawer and taking the dreaded vial into his hand. The empty thing meant his death. How would he explain to the Dark Lord that he couldn't complete his Task? Who would pay for it once he did? Only him? Or Hermione, too?

Which way was safer? Should he get the blood? Could he trust that Voldemort only wanted it for sentimental reasons? Or was it part of something bigger?

Draco placed the tiny container onto the bedside table, staring at it with dread.

_Why is it we don't have a choice?_

_

* * *

_

The 'party,' as Ginny had put it, could be better descried as _chaos_. Girls flooded the Gryffindor bathrooms, hogging mirror space, all of them intent on perfecting their pretty hair and faces. Friends were all crowded together in the rooms, doing each other's nails and make-up. One colorfully dressed fifth year was sobbing on the floor; she'd just found out a friend of hers had purchased the same costume. Hermione passed a group of girls draped in skimpy pajamas, all of them bragging about the handsome dates they'd managed to snag.

"There you are! Jeez, I thought you'd never get here!" Ginny approached, immediately taking the bag from Hermione. "Alright, lets see what we have to work with." She unzipped the thing and looked inside. "It's a start, at least," she said. "Here, go put it on. I'll get my wand and make-up bag and meet you back here in five." She rushed off, and Hermione went in search of a free stall.

"You must have been so excited when Harry chose you over the other girls," she heard someone say just outside, presumably to Ginny. "He is _such _a _dish_," the girl raved.

"He's complicated," the redheaded girl corrected mildly. "And I was more _relieved_ than anything when he asked me. If you could even call it asking me," she added. She shook her head. "Anyway, we're apparently going as friends."

"I wouldn't worry about that," Hermione heard Gwen Carver's voice say. "Once you get into your costume, that whole 'just friends' idea isn't going to stand a chance."

Ginny only shrugged a shoulder in response. And then she straightened as Hermione emerged from her stall.

"Well? What do you think?"

The redheaded and blonde girls came forward, their eyes thoughtfully scanning up and down, evaluating their friend's dress. It seemed like something out of a black and white film: thick lace appliqué blanketed antique-white satin, except for the long sleeves that stretched from shoulder to wrist, where underneath the delicate fabric, her skin was visible. The material was formfitting, but not tight, comfortably hugging her body as it draped down over her sides, her waist, her hips, and legs, sweeping the floor.

"It's actually rather pretty," Ginny decided after a moment. "In an old-fashioned sort of way." She looked back up to Hermione's face. "What are you going as?" she asked.

Hermione held up costume wings. "A fairy, I guess."

Gwen's hazel eyes admired the way the soft white dress accented Hermione's newly regained curves. "It definitely has potential," the girl said with an approving nod.

"Potential?"

"Don't get us wrong. It's lovely," Ginny said with a smile. "But with a few changes here and there, we could make it a knock-out."

"Bring it into this century," Gwen agreed. "Jazz it up a little. What do you say?"

Hermione's shoulders sagged.

"Please, please, pleeease," Ginny begged, putting on puppy-dog eyes and a playful pout.

Hermione sighed. "Fine," she relented. "But _only_ a little," she stipulated.

The two girls clapped excitedly and then quickly went about retrieving the necessary tools for their transformation. Ginny came back a moment later and immediately began to pull and prod at Hermione. "Hold up your arms," she commanded, all business.

Hermione hesitated for a moment, but obeyed, holding her arms straight out on either side. The girls immediately began to measure and cut. "I'd like to state for the record that this is completely for your sake, not for mine," she told them.

"This is for _Brandon's_ sake," Ginny corrected with a smile. "Once we get done with you, he'll be following you around like a puppy dog with a bone."

"Get done with me," Hermione repeated. "You'd think you were talking about torture."

The girls didn't disagree. They were too busy refining their work with whispered words and their wands. Hermione could feel her gown getting lighter, felt the material clinging closer to her curves.

Finally, the two stepped away from her to assess their alterations. After a few moments of furrowed consideration, their faces broke into giddy smiles. "It's perfect," Ginny gushed, clapping her hands together. "Brandon is going to go mad. He's going to be fending rabid boys off of you right and left!"

Hermione went to the full-length mirror, looked at her reflection, and frowned. They'd transformed the lace over her arms into cap sleeves. The hem that had ended at the floor now neatly ended somewhere between mid-thigh and her knee. The neckline that had cut straight across now sat much closer to the small swell of breasts, hugging them, revealing décolletage for her diamond necklace to sit above.

"The hem is a little high," she observed uncomfortably.

"Hardly," Ginny scoffed.

"And the neckline is a little low," she went on. She turned back to her friends. "I feel like I'm in lingerie."

"You look beautiful," Gwen assured her.

Hermione turned back to the mirror, analyzing the woman she saw there. "I don't know," she told them. "I'm not comfortable. It's not... me."

Ginny joined her friend in front of the mirror. "Halloween is the one day of the year you're allowed to be somebody else," she reminded her. "Tonight, you're not Hermione Granger. You're a sensual, seductive fairy princess who's going to cast her spell on every man in that room." She turned Hermione by the shoulders. "Channeling that Amazon. Remember?" she asked expectantly.

Hermione looked reluctant, but nodded.

Ginny smiled excitedly. "Okay, sit, sit, sit!" She practically pushed Hermione into a chair and immediately began her next assault. Taking the band out her hair, she combed through the thick locks with her fingers. "I'm thinking we should go straight," she said, studying the curls.

"Definitely," Gwen put in. "It will add length. What do you think?" she asked, consulting with a newcomer who had stopped to stare.

"It will look _fabulous_ with that dress," the girl confirmed enthusiastically. She circled around, revealing herself to be another sixth-year, Claudette Hearst. Her dark eyes were bright as they considered Hermione. "And it will give you a chance to show off that beautiful necklace," she added with a smile. She leaned in closer, trying to get a better look at the unusual piece. "It's very interesting," she complimented. "Is that a snake around the diamond?"

Hermione's hand immediately went to the jewel at her chest, holding it protectively. "Yes."

"I never got a chance to ask you about that. What's it about?" Gwen inquired, coming around to look as well. "Snakes are supposed to be a Slytherin thing."

Hermione didn't answer.

"She never talks about it," Ginny explained to the girls, her voice playing up the mystery. "It came one day in the mail; imagine—a _diamond_ falling right down with the boring everyday letters. There was a message attached, but it _wasn't signed_." Ginny annunciated the last two words for effect.

It worked; both the girls' eyes widened with interest. "How romantic," Gwen exclaimed. "A secret admirer!"

"Or a mystery man," Claudette filled in with knowing eyes. "Have a boyfriend back home you never told us about, Hermione?" she asked with a smile.

"Of course not," Hermione answered dully.

"Then who is it from?" Claudette urged interestedly.

Hermione took a deep breath, trying to quell the sadness she felt inside. "It came without a signature," she reminded them tiredly.

Gwen sighed dreamily. "So it _is _a secret admirer," she sighed. "How grand!"

Ginny removed her hands from Hermione's hair, looking thoughtful. "You should do it, Gwen," she decided after a moment. "You do the Straightening Spell best. I always overdo it. Last time, I made it so straight the strands almost split in half."

Gwen dutifully switched places with Ginny without a word. Hermione held in a sigh as the new set of fingers began to sift through her hair. "I wonder who the necklace is from, then," she went on conversationally. "One of your friends maybe?"

Hermione looked down, fingering the chain around her neck.

"Ron doesn't have the money. The thing obviously cost a fortune," Ginny put in with a shrug. "And he's really not that imaginative, anyway."

"And I doubt Harry would ever choose a snake," Claudette put in from off to the side. "Would he?"

"In another universe. Or maybe as a joke." She smiled. "You really never can tell with him. He's complicated." And then her eyes narrowed. "But Brandon Madison, on the other hand, is not." She snapped her fingers. "And he's a very plausible suspect."

Hermione looked at her friend, her brown eyes weary. "It's not from him," she assured the group.

"How do you know?" Ginny asked. "It _could _be. It makes the most sense."

"He has the money," Claudette put in. "His family is like wizarding royalty—running around with the Malfoy sort."

"But we won't hold that against him," Gwen added with a smile.

"And he has the imagination," Ginny continued, her excitement growing. "We all witnessed that at the quidditch match. You remember, don't you?" she asked the other girls. "He steered his broom to the stands and called Hermione 'milady' and said he'd win the match for her, like some knight from the middle ages!"

"How utterly romantic!"

"But he didn't win," Hermione whispered, the faintest of smiles appearing on her lips.

Ginny rolled her eyes. "That doesn't matter. It's the thought that counts. What matters is that he fancies you enough to try. _And_ he has all the necessary means to show you he cares with big romantic gestures."

"Like a surprise serenade in the middle of a quidditch match," Gwen said from behind her.

"Or an expensive diamond necklace," Claudette finished with a smile.

Hermione looked down, and then back up, half of her feeling annoyed, the other half feeling numb. "It was _before_ the match, and there was no serenade," she told them firmly. "And he didn't buy me this necklace."

"I wonder why he chose a snake," Gwen mused thoughtfully, ignoring the denial. Hermione could feel the light weight of the girl's wand on her head, and sat still as she whispered a few words in Latin. She felt more than saw her hair begin straighten out, her lush curls slowly falling into soft, perfect lines. "Out of all things, a _snake_," she continued, watching her spell work it's magic on Hermione's hair.

"Men have the strangest ideas," Ginny said with a shrug, and the two other girls nodded as if it explained everything.

Five minutes later, Hermione's ringlets had completely straightened out until her tresses fell long and lustrous down her back. "It's perfect, Mione," Ginny told her with a satisfied smile. "You look like a goddess, and I haven't even done your makeup."

"I think I'll forgo the makeup," Hermione quickly said, pasting on a smile. She couldn't sit here for another minute and listen to them gab on and on about things they knew nothing about. She didn't want to think about Brandon, or even about Draco. She didn't want to _think_.

"But, Mione…"

"You should get yourself ready," Hermione told her softly. "You have to knock Harry off his feet tonight."

Ginny smiled warmly at that. "I'm pretty sure he's seen a _mouse _before," she said.

"Trust me, tonight is going to be a first," Gwen promised, wiggling her eyebrows.

Giggling, the three other girls found something fresh to chatter about, and Hermione excused herself, making a quick escape. She moved through the crowded halls in what seemed to be a hopeless search for an empty room.

Finally, she found one. It was one of her old rooms, she realized, from her first or second year at Hogwarts. Hermione remembered those years. Her life had been so different then, like someone else's altogether. Only a few things had carried through to today.

Like the uncertainty. The safest she had ever felt had never quite been _safe_.

She paced to the middle bed, her old bed, sitting down on it. How many nights had she slept here, wondering if people liked her, or if they thought she was smart, or pretty, or funny, or _worthy_. Back then, most had turned up their noses at her—Draco Malfoy certainly had. But for some reason, she missed those days—back in the beginning, when there had still been a chance for something new, something better. When tomorrow had been uncertain, but had somehow still looked bright.

When there had been hope.

Hermione looked around the room and her eyes fell on a full-length mirror against the far wall. She had half-expected to see the twelve-year-old bookworm that had once stared back, or the scarred, skin-and-bones girl that that bookworm had become. But there was someone new in the mirror, someone she hardly recognized as herself.

She stood, coming closer to study herself in the glass. Her hair was straight and soft, falling in long lines over her shoulders and down her back. The white gown hugged subtle curves she'd never seen before, making her look feminine. If not for the haunted brown eyes that met hers in the mirror, she would have thought it was a different girl altogether.

Hermione slid her arms through the elastic bands of the costume wings, brining them to her back. Fingering the stone at her throat, she turned away from the mirror.

She was ready. Whatever came, tonight, or tomorrow, or the next day, she told herself she was ready.

And maybe if she kept thinking it, kept trying to convince herself, she would find a way to make it true.

* * *

"Where _are _they? We've been waiting here for hours!"

Brandon looked at the Gryffindor boy with an amused grin, his pointy vampire teeth sticking out as he did. "We've only actually been waiting for fifteen minutes," he informed him.

Ron's blue eyes were annoyed as they turned on Brandon. So far, he wasn't liking this new addition to their group. "The point is they should already _be _here," he said, and turned to Harry with speaking eyes.

The green-gazed boy understood the message and shrugged helplessly. "You know girls. They always take forever to get ready."

"We should just go in without them," Ron declared, crossing his arms. "We should just _go_."

Brandon's brows furrowed. "And leave them by themselves?" he asked, troubled, unsure if Ron was joking or not.

He wasn't. "It's not like they haven't been _living _here for the past seven years," he reasoned crossly. "They know the way. They don't need our help."

"We told them we'd meet them at the bottom of the stairwell."

Ron looked at Brandon with temper in his eyes. "And they told us they'd be here on time," he reminded the newcomer. "And they're not. So they get what they deserve." He rolled his eyes and brought the back of his wrist to his forehead, rubbing an itch there.

"You're smudging your scar, mate," Harry informed him, pointing.

Ron groaned. The drawn-on scar, which had been shaped into a lightning bolt, was now a fat black blur against his skin. "Bollocks. Can you still tell what it is?" he asked hopefully.

"No," Brandon told him.

"But it's not a big deal," Harry quickly filled in, not wanting to deal with the Weasley dramatics. "I think the black hair and the glasses kind of give you away."

"Kind of," Brandon agreed unconvincingly.

Ron sent the Ravenclaw an unhappy stare. But then something caught his eye, bringing them wide, and then narrowing them angrily.

"_What _in _hell _do you think you're wearing?"

The other two boys turned to look up, their eyes widening as well. Little Ginny Weasley looked all grown up in a dark minidress that swished around her thighs as she made her way down the steps. Her breasts, which had never been especially noticeable, were hugged by tight taupe-colored material, accenting them nicely. Her bright red hair was curled into gentle waves that bounced just above her shoulders, and sitting atop her head was a set of grey mouse ears. In one of her hands was a thick pink cord that linked to her tailbone.

She twirled that tail sexily, ignoring her brother's reddening face and concentrating on the way Harry was staring at her, entranced. "You can stop drooling now," she stated dryly when she reached him, though she wouldn't have minded if he didn't.

"Yes," Ron interjected angrily, pushing his friend. "Put your tongue back in your mouth."

Harry shook his head. "I'm sorry," he said, but he couldn't avert his eyes from her generous curves. "You look... different..."

"Good different, I hope," she said with a smile.

He nodded. And then his eyes widened. "That's not to say I think you look bad the rest of the time. I think you look fine—pretty, I mean. But your hair, and your clothes—not that your normal clothes are wrong or anything, it's just—"

"Stop talking now, Harry," Ginny advised, her eyes sparkling with satisfaction.

"Yeah, _stop talking_, Harry," Ron agreed loudly, punching his friend's arm. "And stop looking at her like you're going to eat her alive." He turned to Ginny, his face and ears bright red. "And _you_—go back upstairs this instant and put on something else!" he ordered, pointing his finger towards the top of the staircase.

Ginny's eyes narrowed. "I don't _have _anything else," she told him. "Surprisingly enough, I'm not really stocked up on mouse couture."

Ron crossed his arms, the sarcastic remark only infuriating him more. "Then don't be a mouse. Be something else. Throw on a sheet and call yourself a ghost for all I care. Just put on some damn clothes!"

Ginny shook her head, crossing her arms. "If you don't like my outfit, then you're just going to _love _Hermione's," she stated mildly.

As if on cue, Hermione appeared at the top staircase. Each of the three boys' jaws dropped as she approached.

Hermione took in the group waiting at the bottom of the steps. She recognized the emerald-eyed boy right away; he was dressed in his plain Gryffindor quidditch robes in a half-assed attempt to look like a professional player. Next to him was Ron, dressed in a school uniform. His hair was magically dyed black, and he wore round-rimmed glasses, identical to the ones that Harry wore. A dark smudge was on his forehead—the lightning scar, she assumed. Leave it to Ron to mess it up before the night had even begun.

The third boy was harder for Hermione to identify, but she knew who he had to be. It was Brandon, her date, dark and elegant, with artificially pale skin and vampire fangs. Like the two boys, his eyes were wide as he stared at her, but she could see desire in his, and the need to possess. That look made her want to turn around and run back to the security of her own dormitory—into the arms of the person she was really meant to be with.

An ache spread through her heart. But if it was really meant to be, then why wasn't it happening? Why wasn't Draco here with her, instead of with Pansy? Why was everything so askew?

Their mouths were still open when she finally reached them. She looked at them with an awkward smile. "Why… are you all looking at me like that?"

Ron was the first to shake himself out of the stupor, letting the protective anger return. "Why, indeed?" he asked moodily, his eyes narrowing. "Since when is dressing in your _knickers _considered an acceptable costume for Halloween?"

"It isn't too revealing, is it?" Hermione asked, Brandon's not-so-veiled stare making her wonder if she should cover herself.

"It doesn't leave much to the imagination," Harry said, though he didn't so much as glance away from Ginny.

"We look like _nuns_ compared to the other girls," the redheaded girl argued.

"I sincerely doubt that," Ron threw back, "because being _naked_ is strictly against the rules here at Hogwarts."

Hermione looked down at herself, insecure. "It isn't _too _revealing… right?" she asked again.

"I think you look amazing," Brandon told her.

"Of course you do," Ron spat, disapprovingly looking the boy up and down. "It _is _too revealing, isn't it, Harry?" He looked over at his friend for support. Harry was barely listening, his complete focus on his best friend's little sister. "Harry!" Ron said again.

With effort, Harry dragged his gaze away from Ginny. "Maybe you should put something over it," he supplied, but it was only halfhearted. He knew if Hermione covered up, his date would have to, too.

"Oh, you two are insufferable!" Ginny took Hermione's hand and smiled threateningly at the boys. "_We _are going to the dance now. If you'd like to join us, you're more than welcome to do so." And with that, she walked off, pulling a self-conscious Hermione along with her.

The boys watched them go, Harry's eyes on Ginny, Brandon's on Hermione, and Ron's rolling in frustration.

"We should probably follow them," Brandon said, scratching his neck, his head tilting as he watched Hermione's hips sway from side to side.

"Probably," Harry agreed, his eyes following the accented movement of Ginny's hips.

Ron looked at the other two boys and made a sound of disgust. "Oh, come _on_!" he groaned, and started off after the girls, slapping Harry and Brandon upside the head as he passed between them.

They followed the girls into the Great Hall. Music seemed to be coming from every corner of the darkened room, emitting the familiar voices of the popular boy-girl duo, Pandora's Box, who had managed to be secured as this year's entertainment. Pumpkins floated high in the air above them, and decorations of all sorts clung to the walls. Harry and Brandon immediately pulled their dates onto the dance floor, abandoning Ron to take pictures from the refreshment table.

Hermione's eyes scanned the crowd, looking for Draco. So many people were wearing masks that she couldn't be sure who was who. Where was he? Would she see him before tomorrow? Would she get to say goodbye?

A few songs finished before a slower beat began to fill the room. Brandon pulled Hermione into his arms, holding her close. She could smell him; he was wearing some kind of fancy cologne that was a little too strong. Draco's scent was plain in comparison, but she would have chosen it any day.

Would she ever have a chance to breathe in that scent again?

Brandon pulled her even closer, so that her body was pressed up completely against his. She searched the crowd again, wanting more than anything to be out of Brandon's embrace and lost in Draco's.

Hermione felt her head begin to ache. But the cause wasn't the smell of Brandon's cologne or the pounding of the bass. It was the insecurity. It was the dread.

* * *

A pair of dark silver eyes looked out from behind their wolf mask and locked on the beautiful girl dancing with Brandon Madison. Pansy was saying something, but Draco didn't hear her. His gaze was riveted on Hermione, on her body, her face.

_Beautiful…_

Every fiber inside of him longed to go to her, to hold her close. She was stunning, a vision in white—a diamond in the rough, bright despite the darkness. Warm desire spread throughout his body, and he shifted from one foot to the other to even himself out.

He would kill Madison. _Kill _him for touching her when Draco couldn't, for holding her close when she looked as beautiful—and as exposed—as she did tonight. Brandon's arms were wound all the way around her, forcing her body against him. His palms were spread wide, his fingers splaying, taking in as much as they could. Draco could feel his own hands clench, itching to make contact with the other man's face.

He crossed a line, was how he'd explained it to his friends. And he was still crossing it. Without remorse, without reserve. As if Hermione belonged to _him_, and not to Draco.

"Is that the _mudblood_?" Pansy asked, looking Hermione up and down in disbelief. "Well, well, well. I guess now we know exactly how she managed to ensnare Brandon," she said pointedly.

"What is that supposed to mean?" Draco asked her, tense.

Pansy smiled, satisfied that she had finally said something to capture his attention. "She's all over him," she explained with a smooth, casual air. "And that pathetic attempt at cleaning up…" she added, her eyes full of censure. "It can only mean one thing."

"Get on with it," Draco said between his teeth.

"Well, I think it's rather obvious," she told him. "They're sleeping together."

Draco looked from her sultry smile to the couple out on the dance floor, his brows furrowed.

"As much as I dislike the mudblood, I always had a measure of respect for the fact that she never whored around like the other girls in this school. But now it appears she's become as big a slut as the rest of them," he heard Pansy say with a mixture of amusement and disgust. "I mean, look at that dress. No wonder Brandon is so enraptured."

Draco's jaw clenched. He knew it wasn't true; Hermione had been with _him _every night, sleeping innocently in _his _arms. Still, the words had the fury building inside of him. They reminded him of the impermanence of what he and Hermione had, and of the fact that, by this time tomorrow, it would all be over.

"I didn't think Hermione Granger could sink any lower," Pansy went on mildly. "Or Brandon, for that matter. But it appears there's only a few of us left who know how to stick to our morals."

Draco's gaze turned sharply back to Pansy. His jaw clenched, his hands fisted, but somehow he held himself back from doing anything rash.

"What?" Pansy asked innocently at the dangerous look on Draco's face. "I know you're not offended for either of their sakes."

"You never offend me, Pansy," he bit off. "You just aggravate me." Without another word, he walked away.

Pansy watched him go with a frown. She'd become more than used to his curt, apathetic way of treating her. His harsh words and looks may have broken skin, but she'd never let them hurt her enough to make her bleed. Draco was a selfish man by nature, and he could hardly be blamed for it—that attribute had been passed down the pristine Malfoy bloodline, starting centuries and centuries before.

She'd told herself he was straightening out, getting in line. She'd analyzed his behavior and concluded that he was changing, calming, learning, becoming the man—the _husband_—she needed him to be. But Blaise Zabini's words had lingered, edging their way into her subconscious, creating doubt.

_I wouldn't be too quick to say that it's for the better. I wouldn't be too quick to say that it's for you._

There was no question that he was different. The reasons, however, remained unclear. And as much as she'd tried to tell herself they didn't matter, that the end result was all that counted, she found herself wondering, questioning why. He'd been acting strange for a while now. Ever since...

Pansy suddenly turned her eyes back to the dance floor, where the mudblood was still wrapped up in Brandon Madison's embrace. Her eyes slit. It suddenly occurred to her that Draco had seemed almost _bothered _by her banter, as if, secretly, he'd been defensive of the girl, as if he'd been _protective _of her—as if he actually _cared _about her or something.

Pansy crossed her arms, studying the mudblood with a sneer. A Malfoy would never fall for one of _her _kind. _Draco _would never fall for _her_.

His attention to Granger was for the Task, for the blood—at least, that's what she'd believed. But could it be that somehow Draco had developed... _sympathy_ for the bitch? _Affection_ for the _bitch_? Pansy's head was shaking, trying to erase the strange idea. It was disgusting. It was _impossible_!

But it _made sense_.

And suddenly things were falling into place. How he'd saved her life, when he should have let her die. All those night he'd left the Dungeon early, all the parties he'd skipped in favor of being in his own dormitory. Those days in the Great Hall—he had been _looking _for _her_, hadn't he? It was all coming together now. The way he'd been so guarded about the Task, so defensive. The sudden random hatred he had for the ever-friendly Brandon. It _wasn't _random, was it?

Draco had feelings for Hermione Granger.

Pansy was seething. She could feel the fury reverberating around her. It was strong enough to crack the windows and bring down the walls.

It had been sad but amusing to think that Brandon Madison, a wizard of good name and blue blood, had fallen to one such as Hermione Granger. But _Draco—_Draco _Malfoy_—_never_! He didn't care about his girls, just used them and discarded them. He didn't grow attached or fall in love—not with any woman, but especially not with the likes of the mudblood. He was the Slytherin Prince—the _Heir_, for Christ's sake!

And he was _hers_. Or at least, she had thought he was. But it looked like, as usual, he was doing whatever he wanted, unapologetically straying from her and from the plan.

But that was Draco Malfoy for you. There wasn't a rule in the world he wouldn't break—and there wasn't a woman in the world he wouldn't fuck. It wasn't as if Granger was the first to trespass on Pansy's territory. A new girl was throwing herself at him every day, and he was never one to even pretend to resist. Most of his whores did the honorable thing and stayed away after he was done with them, but, of course, a man like Draco always had a few hangers-on, leaving the ever-patient Pansy no other choice but to get involved.

So she'd had to get rid of the ones who just wouldn't give up. Greta Berg certainly hadn't been the first to feel Pansy's wrath. Every naïve hopeful or manipulative schemer that had tried to hang on past their expiration date had been swiftly taken off the shelf. Some had fought it, but it had never taken her long to dispose of the trash. And she could do it again, _would_ do it—especially now that her future husband's intentions were less than clear where this _particular_ piece of litter was concerned.

If Hermione Granger thought she'd seen Pansy's dark side, she was in for a _violent_ awakening.

* * *

Hours went by before Pandora's Box stepped away from their instruments, clearing the spotlight for Professor Dumbledore, who stood on the temporary elevated section of floor.

"I am sorry to say that our evening is drawing to a close," he said, his voice raised for everyone to hear. Groans sounded. "I think we should thank Pandora's Box, who took time out of their busy schedules to play for our humble gathering." The entire hall erupted into shouts and whoops, and the famous man and woman waved lightly with smiles. "Also, let's thank the student officials who put this marvelous event together. A round of applause, please, for our Head Boy, Head Girl, and our Prefects. They did a wonderful job planning all this." Again, the school clapped and hollered in support. "To show our appreciation, I think we should let them lead us in the final dance. If you would clear the floor..." He looked out into the crowd, and though it was dark, his twinkling eyes seemed to find the students easily. "Head Boy and Head Girl, pair up together, if you please. Prefects, you do the same."

Pandora's Box began to play again, the first melodic bars revealing the haunting intro to one of their ballads.

Hermione felt the people around her move away, until the whole world was a circle around her, watching her, waiting. No costumed man stepped out to claim the dance, and she had the sudden fear that Draco wouldn't come forward—or worse, that he _couldn't_, that he had already gone, already headed towards tomorrow without looking back, without saying goodbye.

The Prefects were partnered up and slowly swaying to the music at the center of the floor, making Hermione self-conscious as she stood alone. She made a slow, 360 degree turn, searching from face to face for the Head Boy—gave up when he was nowhere to be found. With a deep sigh, she began to walk from the floor.

"I told you I'd recognize you," a dark voice said from behind her.

She stopped. Slowly, she turned back. Draco's commanding form was clad in expensive black dress robes. A wolf mask covered half of his face, but she could see his silver eyes, the warmth there. The intensity there.

"I wasn't sure you would come," she told him quietly.

Draco's only answer was his haunted gaze. He looked around the room, where other couples had begun to move together with the beat. And then he looked back to her. He stepped closer, holding out a hand. "Dance with me," he commanded.

Hermione had to hold herself back from flowing easily into his arms. Slowly, dutifully, she stepped to him. Respectability—and self-preservation—had them keeping a safe distance apart, her hand on his shoulder, his careful on her back, the others joined in what both hoped looked like a casual grasp. They danced to the slow melody, spines straight, bodies tense, tortured—but not for the reason that everyone thought. The students and teachers would no doubt assume that it was the old enmity that kept them upright, kept them from pulling each other close, the old hatred that kept them from smiling and enjoying the dance. Really, it was the new love, the one that tempted and taunted them, the one they longed to display to each other and all the world, but couldn't.

Pandora's Box was singing about regret, about things left unsaid, about having to go separate ways, about having to say goodbye. The slow, smooth melody, the haunting, familiar words—they were surrounding the room as if meant for them alone, _about_ them alone. But neither heard the poignant lyrics. They were too lost in each other, too focused on trying to disguise it. It didn't matter though. The words were there inside of both of them, there in the way their gazes clashed, held, couldn't look away. They were there in the way she tightened her fingers around his longingly, pleadingly, there in the way his jaw tensed hauntedly in response.

How they longed to wrap their arms fully around waists, longed to close their eyes and sway, chins resting on shoulders, cheeks resting against chests. But Draco knew if Hermione came any nearer, the world would start to wonder, start to suspect. And he knew if he pulled her any closer he would never be able to let her go.

Unable to fight off every temptation, Draco let his gaze roam from its fixed unfocused place over her shoulder to her face, her neck, her body, and then back up again. Unable to stop himself, he pulled her half an inch closer. "You look..." He swallowed. "You're breathtaking."

Hermione longed for him to force her closer, felt sadness well up inside of her because she knew why he didn't. She moved to look into his eyes. "I'm a fairy," she explained, trying to smile.

He shook his head, the movement quick, jerky. "An angel," he corrected meaningfully. His hands tightened around her, holding with restrained passion, the kind you couldn't see, but could feel burn. "You're an angel."


	12. An Unfair Exchange

_Saving You Summary—DMHG. Hermione Granger has a secret, one that's literally killing her: she has been suffering extreme abuse at the hands of her father. Who will come to her rescue? What if the only one who can is Draco Malfoy? Rated M for sexual content (including rape), suicide ideation, and violence._

_Disclaimer—Most of the characters and a lot of the setting belong to J.K. Rowling. The rest is mine._

A/N: Last updated Mar. 21, 2010

* * *

**:::An Unfair Exchange:::**

As the two danced, they didn't notice the pair of emerald eyes that watched them intently from behind round glasses.

Harry stared at the couple, his gaze assessing them. He watched the way Draco Malfoy held Hermione, so straight and restrained—_barely_ restrained, it seemed. To everyone else, the discomfort between them was simple—expected, even. But Harry saw the dark details and hidden changes beneath. Malfoy didn't keep her close, but his grip was tight on her body. He didn't look relaxed or happy, but the tension seemed to be made more of pain than of hate. He didn't speak to her, but his eyes said volumes, looking down at her as if she were some otherworldly being—half in bewitchment and half in torture. He held her as if he actually meant it...

As if somewhere, somehow, he'd done it before.

In the back of his mind, Harry had acknowledged the signs—Hermione's reluctance to accept his visions; her growing indifference to the charming Brandon Madison; the night she'd spent hiding in Gryffindor Tower; her distant gazes and strange moods…

The diamond necklace.

It had all been there in front of his eyes. He just hadn't wanted to see.

He fell deep into his thoughts as he watched them dance. Was Malfoy the reason she had recovered so quickly and so well? Was he the reason she had seemed happier, healthier? If he was, then what would happen when the bastard cast her aside like all the other chits? Or worse—after Harry's premonitions came true? Would he drag Hermione down with him? Would he leave her shattered and in the dust? Would they be able to piece her back together again once he did? She'd barely made it through the last time. She'd never survive another relapse.

Harry wasn't sure he could survive it, either.

He felt a wave of relief when the song finally ended. He watched the couple pull apart, each reluctant and relieved to let the other go. Hermione's date immediately appeared to retrieve her. There seemed to be instant tension between the two men, and Harry could see that words were already being exchanged.

He felt himself tense. He had heard that an incident had taken place between Madison and Malfoy in the library, but he had never in a million years thought to connect it to Hermione. Could the fight have had anything to do with her? It didn't seem so impossible now.

"Here—it's the last of the pumpkin juice." Ginny came up beside him, holding out a cup.

He didn't take it, didn't even look at it.

Ginny was peering dubiously into her own glass. "Someone spiked it with some kind of God-awful liquor, so it doesn't taste very—" She cut off, surprised when she felt the cup suddenly being plucked from her grasp. She watched amusedly as Harry downed the whole thing in a single gulp. "In need of a stiff drink?" she asked, one eyebrow raised. He still didn't look at her, so she followed his gaze. "Uh oh. Looks like a storm is brewing over there," she observed interestedly. "What's going on?"

"Don't know," Harry said shortly.

"I heard they almost came to blows in the library during our quidditch match." Ginny tilted her head. "They've never had a problem before. I wonder what happened."

"Yeah, I wonder."

"Probably Malfoy causing more trouble," Ginny sighed, watching their friend stand awkwardly in the distance. "Poor Mione. She has to put up with his shenanigans every day." She shook her head, her red curls swaying. "Random heroic episodes aside, living with Malfoy would be a bloody nightmare. I mean, everyone knows about his sexual escapades. But sharing a dormitory with it is another matter entirely! I'm sure she has to deal with it firsthand—"

Ginny's eyes widened when Harry unceremoniously grabbed her own glass from her and downed the contents in another single swallow.

She looked at him skeptically. "O-_kay_," she said slowly, drawing out the last syllable. "I suppose I wasn't thirsty anyway."

Harry nodded, offering no apology. Ginny didn't know how true her words were. Hermione wasn't just _dealing _with those girls. It seemed more and more possible that she may very well _be _one of those girls.

"I'm gonna need another drink."

* * *

Brandon swooped in to take Hermione back as soon the music faded, taking hold of her hand just as Draco released it. "Hope you had a good time dancing, Malfoy," she heard him say insincerely. "I don't think you'll have an opportunity like it in the future."

Draco's grey gaze was suddenly metallic and razor-sharp. "I didn't ask you what you think," he answered quietly, taking the wolf mask from his face so Brandon could see the threat in his eyes.

The other boy was unfazed. "I don't need to be asked. I'm free to say what I want."

Draco's hands balled into fists. "Yeah, well I wonder how free you'll feel when your spine is snapped in two," he said dangerously.

"If you're looking for a fight, Malfoy, I'm more than happy to provide one."

Hermione looked around self-consciously, thankful that the end-of-party chaos veiled the scene that was unfolding. "Please, let's not do this," she implored, crossing her arms uncomfortably over her chest.

Brandon turned to her. "Someone needs to put him in his place!"

"I'd like to see you try," Draco interjected darkly.

Brandon's head snapped back up. "I could do it right now," he promised, stepping forward—only to be stopped by Hermione's gentle hand.

Her honey eyes were sad as they met his. "Let that be enough, Brandon," she whispered. "Please."

Draco's jaw clenched. He hated the way Madison seemed to be lost in her soft brown eyes. It drove him mad to hear her say the whelp's pathetic name, to watch her lay a soft hand against his heart. Why was she stopping him? Why was she rescuing _him_?

"Is there a problem here?" purred a familiar voice on Draco's right. He clenched his jaw even tighter as he felt Pansy put a possessive arm around his waist and tilted her head against his shoulder.

Hermione looked at the newcomer with wary eyes. Pansy Parkinson's superior attitude was matched perfectly by her choice of wardrobe. The silver ball gown was like something out of dream, sophisticated and sensual—and, above all, _expensive_. It took its inspiration from 18th century court attire: a boned, corseted bodice constricted her waist, accentuating her curves and displaying the creamy upper portion of her bosom to the world's admiring gaze. The heavy pannier skirt flared out at the hips, and velvet emerald appliqué swept down the shiny silk like vines twining to the floor. Her dark glossy hair was swept up into an intricate knot at the back of her head, revealing two dangling diamond-and-emerald earrings. The stunning pair matched the heavily jeweled choker that hugged her throat and the sparkling tiara that sat regally above her bangs.

"There's no problem," Draco assured his queen, glaring at Brandon.

Pansy's eyes flowed from the Ravenclaw boy to the mudblood. "Are you sure?" she asked, talking to Draco, but staring Hermione down with that feline smile. "The air around here seems a bit... tense."

"There's no problem," Draco said again, this time through his teeth. He took her hand from around him and held it tightly, like a stern father with his unruly child. "We should be on our way," he all but spat.

Pansy's smile was smooth as ice. "Whatever you say, darling," she cooed acquiescently. She turned to nod at the other boy. "Brandon," she acknowledged in that husky voice. "Always a pleasure." She turned her gaze back to Hermione. Her smile widened, turned mean, threatening. But she said nothing to the other girl.

She didn't need to. Hermione understood the royal censure.

"Goodnight Pansy," Brandon returned, nodding stiffly. "Malfoy," he added. And then he was pulling Hermione away from the other couple and into the crowd.

Pansy hugged Draco's arm closer, watching as Brandon and his little date disappeared into the chaos. "That was an intriguing exchange," she stated slyly. She looked up, watching his eyes watch Granger disappear. "If I didn't know better," she said, her voice breezy and slick as oil, "I'd think you two were actually _fighting_... over the mudblood."

Draco wrenched his arm away from her. "Well, it's a good thing you know better," he growled dangerously. And with that, he began to storm off.

"Oh, _Draco_," Pansy sang before he could get too far. He turned, annoyed at the knowing smile on her lips. "Make sure to get a good night's rest. I'm expecting you to be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed in the morning." Her voice was warm, but her words were chilling, and her eyes were bright with anticipation... and _victory_.

Draco sent her a look of disgust. "_Goodnight_, Pansy," he spat, waving her off like a king with a servant. He was turning around again, pushing his way through the flood of people and out of the hall.

She watched him go, a tiny, calculating smile on her lips. "Goodnight… my darling."

* * *

Brandon walked up the main staircase with the golden band of Gryffindors, his hand locked firmly with Hermione Granger's thin one. He smiled patiently as Ron complained about this and that. He politely tried not to laugh when Ginny snapped back with her witty remarks. He interjected a casual statement here and there, trying to fit in, trying to find a place within their group—not realizing that the girl beside him wasn't smiling or encouraging, not noticing she didn't want him to continue slowly easing his way in.

He drew her to a halt when they reached the fifth floor, and she was relieved when he finally released her hand. "Here's where I get off," he said, motioning behind him to the corridor that led to the west wing of the castle. "This was really fun," he told her with that gentlemanly smile. "I hope we can do it again."

Hermione didn't confirm or deny, just forced herself smile. "I'll see you in class," was all she said.

Brandon nodded. "And... I'm sorry about before," he added with a rueful smile. Hermione's eyebrows furrowed questioningly. "That almost-altercation with Malfoy. You were right to put a stop to it," he explained. "Ever since that quidditch match, we haven't been seeing eye to eye." He shrugged. "Normally, I'd try to be a civil. But Malfoy thinks he's untouchable. He walks around here like he owns everything and every_one_." The Ravenclaw looked into her dark eyes. "And he _doesn't_—does he?"

Hermione knew he was reaching, but again, she didn't confirm or deny. "He can be... difficult," she allowed quietly. She put on a careful smile. "It wasn't your fault."

The answer must have satisfied Brandon, because he looked relieved. "I figured you'd understand, given your rocky history with him. You know better than anyone what kind of person he is." He took her hand again, squeezed it warmly in his. "The only decent thing the man's ever done is save your life."

"Hear, hear!" Ron chimed in.

Brandon laughed under his breath. "Anyway. Will I see you tomorrow?" he asked her. She nodded slowly, and his smile widened. He bent, lifted the back of her hand to his lips. "Well then—until we meet again." His voice was a warm, caressing breath against her skin.

Hermione kept the dutiful smile pasted on, even though on the inside, his every advance made her cringe.

The tired grin immediately faded as he turned to walk away. "He is such a gentleman," she heard Ginny gush as they once again began to climb the stairs. "So thoughtful and respectful—and he has the face of a saint!"

Yes, Hermione thought briefly. Brandon Madison was a saint. He was kind and caring and forever warm. He was reliable and consistent—he was everything she should want. So why, then, did she want the volatile Draco? Why did she crave the ice and burn of his embrace? Why did she long for him to look at her, to love her? Why did she need him, _trust _him? Why wasn't she afraid?

"He's all right, I guess," she heard Ron say doubtfully of Brandon. "He has good taste in enemies, at least."

"The fact that he's not intimidated by Malfoy is refreshing," Ginny agreed. "But he was brought up in the same circles, so I suppose it's a given that he wouldn't be afraid to bite back." She smiled flippantly. "Unlike Malfoy, he learned confidence and good breeding _without_ becoming a self-important prick."

Hermione was tired of the word _Malfoy_, tired of pretending she felt the same way she always had, tired of having to play along. She was tired of putting on a brave smile and acting like she wasn't torn apart by the uncertain future—and by the steel-eyed man who, starting tomorrow, might be _exactly_ what her friends said he was.

She was relieved when they reached the sixth floor. "I guess this is where I say goodnight," she told them quietly.

Harry's green gaze moved from her to the corridor behind her, where around a few corners and up a side staircase, the Head Dormitory—and the Head Boy—waited. He looked back to her. "Why don't you come up and stay the night with us? Neville's old bed is still available," he tried to urge.

Hermione looked hesitantly over her shoulder. She wondered if maybe she should go with them. There was a chance Draco might already be gone. And she didn't know if she could face an empty room… an empty bed. She didn't know if she could survive an empty, broken heart.

Harry saw the reluctance, and thought that she might actually be convinced. "Or sleep in Ginny's room," he offered quickly. "I'm sure she'd love the company."

Hermione looked back. "Not tonight," she said finally.

Harry wanted to argue, wanted to keep her where she would be safe, but didn't insist. He needed time to sort out fact from fiction. And once he did, he would offer no option. If his suspicions turned out to be true, he would have more than enough reason to force her to stay where she belonged—with them...

And away from Draco Malfoy.

He released Ginny's hand to hug his friend close. "You don't need me to walk with you?" he asked her.

Hermione smiled tiredly. "You should walk with Ginny," she said softly. "I'll be okay." She hugged the redheaded girl, and then Ron, and then slowly turned to walk away.

"Hermione." Harry's voice stopped her. She turned back, waited.

Harry watched her for one long, wary moment. "Be careful," he finally said.

Hermione only smiled wanly before turning again and heading down the corridor.

Ron was immediately bolting up the stairs, but Harry and Ginny stared after her, one with tense eyes, the other with admiring ones. "She looked beautiful tonight, didn't she?" Ginny asked wistfully as their friend disappeared around the corner and out of sight.

"Yes," Harry said, reluctant. "You both did."

Ginny looked at him wryly. "You know, flattery isn't actually supposed to be _flat_, Harry," she informed him with a smile. When he didn't smile back, didn't lighten, she took his hand. "What's wrong?" she asked him, her brows furrowing with concern. "You were chipper all night. Now all of a sudden it's like someone's rained on your parade."

Harry turned away from the empty corridor and forced himself to relax. "I'm tired from all the dancing you made me do," he told her lightly.

He squeezed her hand reassuringly, and the sensation of his fingers tightening around hers brought the playful smile back to her lips. "I didn't _make_ you do anything," she reminded him. "You were a willing participant. More than willing, in fact."

Harry didn't reply, but the reluctant smile was confirmation enough.

Together, hand in hand, they began to climb the stairs. Silence fell.

"Tonight was fun, wasn't it?" Ginny asked after some time. "We had a good time together?"

Harry glanced at her profile. "I had a great time," he admitted.

She smiled at that. "I told you it could be great," she said triumphantly. "You didn't believe me."

Harry looked to the side, his green eyes darkening. "I believed you," he assured her quietly.

Another silence fell, and words didn't pick up again until they were through the Fat Lady's portrait and into the empty Gryffindor common room. They drew to a halt, facing each other, looking each other in the eyes. For a few seconds, no one spoke, no one interrupted. For just a moment, they just stared at—or maybe _into_—one another.

"We should do this more often," Ginny whispered after a moment. "You know, _this_," she said, swinging their joined hands. Harry looked away, tried to withdraw his hand, but her grip around his fingers firmed until he was forced to look back. Her clear blue eyes searched his. "We're a little too friendly to be only friends, don't you think?"

His shoulders slumped. "Ginny..."

Instead of letting him go, she took his other hand. "I said I'd wait," she told him quietly. "I never said I'd make it easy." She took one sensual step closer to him. "I hate to break it to you, Harry, but I'm going to do everything I can to hurry this process along." She smiled when, again, he averted his gaze. "Think of it as a contest," she suggested, her eyes bright. "When I get my way, we both win."

Harry's jaw clenched. She was so near to him, nearer than he ever remembered her being before. Her blue eyes were right underneath his, and he knew her lips were a breath away from his.

She watched him, waiting. He knew she wanted him to lean down, knew she wanted him to finish closing the distance. But he wouldn't kiss her. As much as he wanted to, he couldn't let himself touch her with romantic intent. No matter how long she stared at him with those inviting blue eyes or how good she looked in that short grey dress, he couldn't.

Ginny could see his resolve. With a patient sigh, she released his hands. "I'll see you tomorrow," she told him, and strode past him towards the girl's wing of the tower.

He watched her back, wanting to stop her, wanting to call her back and make her stay. "Ginny," he heard himself say just as she reached the stairs.

She stopped, turned.

Harry wracked his brain for something to say, some reason to bring her back. Nothing came. "Sleep well," he told her lamely.

Ginny crossed her arms, causing her cleavage to swell above the neckline of her dress. "I will," she assured him dryly. "_You_, on the other hand, are going to be tossing and turning all night, thinking about me in this very revealing dress..." She smiled knowingly. "And kicking yourself in the head for not having the nerve to kiss me goodnight."

"We're—"

"Just friends. I know." She shook her head, her red curls swaying, brushing her bare shoulders. "But tell me it isn't true." Her wry smile widened victoriously when he said nothing. She shook her head affectionately. "Goodnight, Harry."

Harry watched the sway of her hips as she climbed the stairs, longing—and regret—awash in his stare. "Goodnight," he whispered, but she never heard him.

* * *

By the time Draco reached his own dormitory, the hot-bloodedness had chilled to a cold reserve, so frigid that it felt like ice was clogging his veins. Compared with the chaos of the crowded corridors and flooded staircases, the Head common room was deathly still. Moments ago, drunken laughter and tired farewells had been echoing against the walls, ringing inside his head. But now all was silent, leaving him to his tortured thoughts... leaving him to wait for the inevitable sunrise.

He tossed his wolf mask onto the mahogany table, took off the expensive robe and laid it over the sofa back. The clicking sound of the Domek portrait reached his ears. His grey gaze snapped up, immediately alert.

But it wasn't Hermione Granger who walked through the door.

"Zabini," he greeted unenthusiastically as Blaise quietly entered. "I thought I changed the password. Yet here you are."

"You did change it," Blaise confirmed dryly. "_Noli intrare, Zabini_. Do not enter—not exactly your most original selection," he told his friend, one eyebrow raised. And then he smiled. "Adding my name on the end was a nice touch."

Draco's jaw clenched. "And still somehow you didn't get the hint."

"I got it," Blaise assured him. "I just didn't care. Some of your apathy must be rubbing off."

Draco said nothing, only walked towards the fireplace to stare out of the window and into the lightless sky.

Blaise watched the blond-haired man with skeptical eyes. "I saw you get into it with Madison," he went on after a moment. He crossed his arms. "I'm sure I wasn't the only one."

Draco's stormy eyes looked dangerously back. "That glib bastard was asking to get his face smashed in," he spat. His voice was low and laced with venom. "If it's what the man wants, who am I to deny him?"

Blaise only shook his head wryly. "Well, I'm glad you decided to check your impulses. I don't think Lucius would take too kindly to the news that his son beat Dalton Madison's beloved son to a bloody pulp."

Draco laughed humorlessly and looked back out the window. "The name Madison means as little to my father as it does to me," he said. "Lucius Malfoy despises new money. I could _murder_ Madison, and he wouldn't give a damn."

"He would if he found out the reason behind it," Blaise returned mildly.

The mere reference to Hermione had Draco's patience draining. "Can we get to the point of this little visit?" he snapped resentfully. "What do you want?"

"Tomorrow's the big day," Blaise said with a casual shrug. "I just wanted to check in. Make sure you're on track." He considered his friend. "You _are _on track, aren't you?" he asked when the other man made no response.

Draco said nothing, but his jaw worked as he stared out the window.

"Where's the vial?" Blaise pressed. Draco waited a moment, and then nodded towards the archway. The dark-skinned boy immediately strode underneath it, through the snake painting and into the darkened bedroom. He emerged again a second later, holding up the glass phial. "It's empty," he observed tightly.

"Is it?" Draco asked with mock surprise.

Blaise sent him a pointed look. "Now who's being glib?" Draco looked at him dully before turning back to the window. "I'm glad that you feel comfortable enough to play around, Malfoy. And to procrastinate," his friend told him. He crossed his arms tensely. "But you're cutting it a little close, wouldn't you say?"

Draco watched the silver moon. "Right down to the wire," he agreed quietly.

"What's _taking_ so long?" Blaise asked him impatiently. "You live in the same dormitory. You sleep in the same _bloody_ bed." Draco looked dangerously over his shoulder at that. The darker man held his hands unapologetically. "Are you going to try to tell me it isn't true?" he asked.

Draco said nothing—_could_ say nothing—but the venomous glare was confirmation enough.

Blaise wasn't moved. "You can't say you haven't had ample opportunity."

"No, I can't," he agreed numbly. "I have."

Blaise's dark eyes narrowed. "You're not still thinking about showing up empty-handed…?"

Draco stared out into the distance, where the sky was black and without stars. "No." And then he shook his head defeatedly. "I don't know."

The words had Blaise shaking his head in disbelief. "Christ. Why can't you get it through your thick skull? This wasn't a request—it was a royal command." He held up the glass vial. "You have your orders, Malfoy. You've made your bed."

"My coffin, you mean."

Blaise looked at him blandly. "Call it whatever you like. You have to lie in it." He shook his head, laughed under his breath. The sound was tense, humorless, frustrated. "Damn it, mate. Your Task was so simple…"

"_Nothing_ is simple, Zabini," Draco bit back. "Not anymore, not where the Dark Mark is concerned." He shook his head, looked away. "I would have sooner killed a _hundred_ Aurors than this." His haunted gaze went to the empty vial. His voice quieted. "I would have sooner died, myself."

"Once the Dark Lord sees this, I'm sure he'll be happy to oblige you," Blaise returned. "I don't need to remind you that dereliction is punishable by death."

No. Draco didn't need reminding. He knew exactly what waited for him if he didn't bring the blood.

He just didn't know what waited for Hermione.

Blaise watched his friend—the remnants of the infamous Slytherin Prince. Where was the debaucher, the unapologetic sinner? Where was the cold apathy, the regal indifference? What had happened to the Draco Malfoy who couldn't feel and didn't care? The man he saw before him was someone else, someone he didn't recognize…

The hardened armor was still there, hiding the truth, but Blaise knew that underneath, the ice was melting away. Hermione Granger had warmed the stone heart, had softened the steel, had brought light to the mere shadow of a man, making him human. Making him _vulnerable_. After years of being hard, untouchable, unmovable, _invincible_, the heartless hunter had finally been conquered—by his prey.

"You think you're in love with her, don't you?" Blaise realized, half in disbelief. Draco said nothing, causing the dark-skinned boy to shrug a shoulder. "Well and maybe you are. Who am I to say?" He stepped forward, slowly, seriously. "If you really do love her, you'll do whatever it takes to protect her. You'll do whatever it takes to keep her alive."

Draco smiled grimly. "Is that what I'd be doing? I'm not sure."

"Trust me, Malfoy, _not_ getting the blood is going to hurt her a lot more than getting it ever could," his friend assured him.

Draco turned back out to the night sky. "I know," he admitted finally, his voice a whisper.

Blaise walked to him, held out the empty phial. "Then you know what you have to do," he told him quietly.

Draco looked at the glass container, but didn't take it.

Blaise held his hand out further. "I know you're not in the habit of heeding my advice," he said seriously. "But please, mate. Do it," he pleaded. "If only this once."

Draco's intense metallic gaze connected with his friend's dark somber one. It was true. He was far more practiced at ignoring advice than listening to it. Blaise Zabini had spent a lifetime trying to steer him in one direction—and he had spent a lifetime running the opposite way.

But his friend had never lost his cool. He'd looked on patiently, always entertained, never offended, as Draco had done whatever he'd wanted to do.

But the always-amused Blaise wasn't amused now. The sardonic smiles and raises of brow had finally worn thin, and his eyes were saying _this isn't a laughing matter anymore. This isn't a game…_

But if there was one thing Draco knew, it was that _everything_ was a game. All that ever changed were the stakes and the players.

What was he willing to wager? How much was he willing to _lose_? Draco was legend for being a high roller, but for the first time, his back was against the wall. He was gambling with Hermione's life here; one wrong roll of the dice, and she would be dead.

His haunted silver gaze watched the vial in the darker boy's hand. His teeth gritted together and his jaw clenched tight. And then slowly, dreadfully, he reached out and forced his fingers to close around it.

Zabini was right. Draco knew what he had to do.

He had to make the safest bet.

Blaise nodded, relieved, but also regretful. "I'll change the password back on my way out," he said to his friend. "And I'll see you in a few hours." Draco said nothing as he turned, said nothing as he walked to the door behind the centaur portrait and let himself out…

He said nothing, did nothing, only stared hauntedly at the cool glass vial in his hand.

Blaise took his time returning to the Slytherin Dungeon. The common room was quiet by the time he arrived, dark and empty except for a fading glow in the hearth and a single person sitting straight-backed on the sofa. The girl's familiar profile and the tiara on her head were silhouetted in the firelight.

He recognized her immediately.

"Pansy," he greeted. "Still awake, I see."

Pansy smiled smoothly. "I figured I'd just have to be up again in a few hours," she replied. She turned to look at him, her blue eyes glittering like the jewels that adorned her ears and throat. "Besides—I've been waiting for your report," she informed him. She tilted her head. "I trust things are in order?"

"Things are decidedly _out _of order, actually," he said mildly. "Out of order—but in character." He shook his head with that old amusement. "As you know, Malfoy doesn't respond well to the idea of being under somebody else's thumb."

"You don't say," Pansy returned with a bland look.

She looked to the passage door that led to the Head common room, her gaze turning skeptical. And then she looked back to Blaise. "Is he alone?" she asked him primly.

Blaise raised an eyebrow. "What do you think?" he asked back.

Pansy straightened, a faintly disapproving smile crossing her face. "Of course he isn't," she mused tightly. "Leave it to Draco Malfoy to make use of every last minute." She smoothed the skirt of her custom-made ball gown, forced her chin up. "Well, I won't be discouraged," she insisted coolly. "After all, it's customary for a man to go wild on his last night of freedom." She folded her hands prudently on her lap. "Even death-row prisoners get a last meal," she reasoned.

"Is tomorrow an execution?" Blaise asked her amusedly.

"Of sorts." Her sultry smile turned scheming and satisfied. "The Draco Malfoy we've always known will finally be put to rest. Staring tomorrow, we'll be experiencing a new man."

Blaise grinned caustically. "If you say so," was all he said.

Pansy rose from the cushions, annoyed by the doubt. "I do," she informed him edgily.

Blaise only watched her with wry affection.

She, however, was anything but amused. His skepticism brought to mind the disgusting display she'd witnessed earlier in the evening. Was it the _mudblood_ who Draco had entertaining him on his last night? Suddenly, Pansy had to know.

"Out of curiosity… which of his whores does he have with him?" she asked him casually. Blaise didn't answer, only continued to watch her in silence. Pansy shook her head. "Ever the loyal subject," she mused. She made a show of shrugging her shoulder and began to slowly saunter towards the entrance. "Well if you won't tell me, maybe I'll have to go find out for myself..."

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," Blaise warned her mildly.

The words halted her just as she was about to pass him by. "Well, you're not me," she reminded him. "And thank God for that." She smiled airily and continued forward. "Whatever harlot he has with him will just have to make room."

Blaise grabbed her wrist harshly and held her in place. "Don't. I mean it, Pansy," he commanded quietly.

Pansy wrenched her hand away indignantly. "And why not?" she asked.

Blaise only looked at her grimly. "Because all your precious plans depend _completely_ on what he does and who he's with right now."

The Slytherin Princess' sculpted brows furrowed. The words were vague, but they were enough to elicit the provocative image of her future husband dancing with Hermione Granger, his hands holding her curves with hidden passion, his eyes on her and her alone. The picture had Pansy's blood curdling, had rage—and doubt—pumping through her veins in its place.

She crossed her arms. "If you're trying to imply that he may not go through with it..." she began tensely.

Blaise put on a bland smile. "Not to worry, Pansy," he told her calmly. "Malfoy has done some foolish things, but he's never been a fool." The words seemed to soothe the girl's persistence, but her lips still wore the moody frown. "For tonight, leave him be," he advised her seriously. "You'll have the rest of your lives to try to interfere."

A satisfied gleam surfaced in her blue eyes at that, and the cool smile reappeared. "The rest of our lives," she repeated, loving the way the words rolled right off the tongue. She held out her left hand, considering it thoughtfully, imagining the diamond that would soon ornament her finger. "Forever starts tomorrow," she declared with dark satisfaction. She met his gaze with a smile. "I can't wait."

Blaise looked on with a wry smile, but his eyes were grim.

The corridors were empty now, everyone having peeled off into the direction of their own dormitories, leaving Hermione to walk alone.

Her mind was blank. She'd spent the night with Brandon Madison and her friends, but her thoughts had been far away, focused on Draco, on the vial, on tomorrow.

It seemed like hours had passed before she finally reached her own dormitory. The common room beyond the centaur portrait was dark. Reaching to her back, she slowly pulled her costume wings off from around her shoulders and let them fall discarded on the floor.

"You took a while," a quiet voice surprised her. She looked up.

Draco's form became visible through the darkness. He stood off in the shadows, against the wall, just a silhouette in the moonlight.

Hermione was still. "I didn't know if you'd be here," she said carefully.

"Why wouldn't I be?"

She shrugged a weak shoulder. _To be with Pansy. To prepare for tomorrow. _But she didn't say it. Instead, she slowly stepped forward. "Did you have fun tonight," she asked, her lips tilting up tiredly.

Draco didn't smile back. "No," he said seriously.

It was true. He had loved dancing with her, holding her close, smelling her scent—but even that hadn't been fun. It had been torture—sweet, tempting torture.

"Did you?" he asked.

Hermione waited. And then she slowly shook her head. "No," she whispered.

They both stood very still, looking deep into each other's eyes. Into each other's souls.

"I can't sleep in your bed tonight," he said after a while.

The words had the unshed tears beginning to build behind her eyes. This was their last night. Time was running out! Her mind screamed the thoughts, but her face remained calm.

She swallowed. "Why?" she asked when she somehow found her voice.

He looked away. "I don't want you to wake up alone knowing…" He trailed off, shook his head.

"Knowing where you are instead? And what you're doing?" she finished for him. His jaw clenched, and he nodded once. She took two careful steps forward. "I'll know anyway," she reasoned sadly. Her voice was low, and she tried with all her might to keep the desperation she felt out of it. "It won't change anything."

Draco turned, facing the square widow, staring out at the moon. "I won't leave your bed and go _there_. It wouldn't be right."

"We'll sleep in yours, then," she tried to say.

He shook his head. "It's not the bed, Hermione," he said grimly. "It's you."

They lapsed into silence, her gold-brown eyes on his back, his silver ones on the stars. Would they ever speak, really _speak_, after tonight? Or would they wake up tomorrow as if from some strange dream? Would they both be the people they had been before that morning they'd met eyes on the Hogwarts Express? Would life go back to the way it had been before?

Hermione looked down, every part of her breaking at the idea. He had saved her, had made her whole once again—maybe for the first time. How would she stay in one piece when he was gone? How, when she was already being torn apart at the mere thought of it?

She would do anything for him, give him anything. Didn't he know he had only to ask? Didn't he know that she was his and only his?

How could she tell him? How could she make him understand?

She looked up then, her eyes set. With slow, purposeful steps she walked to him, closing the distance between them. Placing her hands on his shoulders, she gently pushed him around until he faced her. His metallic eyes were haunted as they looked down into hers, melting her heart. She ran a hand down the side of his face, soothing, warming.

She knew what to do here. She knew how to make them both forget. For tonight, at least, they could forget.

Hermione took his face into her hands and stood on her tiptoes, her eyes on his lips, her breath mingling with his. She could share this final part of herself with him, the part she had never shared willingly with another man. She could have this one night, and so could he. They could share this one final memory to take with them into the uncertainty of tomorrow.

And they could make it last forever.

"Make love to me," she whispered, her voice holding a little of the desperation she'd tried to hide.

Draco's eyes widened and his hands fisted at his side. He wanted so badly to touch her, to make her his. But how could he? How could he leave her after she shared herself completely? How could one night ever be enough? How would he ever find a way to let her go?

He turned his face, and she saw his jaw work. "No. I can't. We can't." His voice was hoarse with raw desire and something else. Something deeper.

"You can. We have to," she countered softly. "We don't know what will happen after tonight. We don't know if we'll ever…"

_Have another chance. We can't be sure we'll ever be together again._

He could feel her warm breath brush the side of his face. "That's not a good enough excuse," Draco said, trying to convince her—and himself.

"Then we won't make it about tomorrow, or yesterday," she pleaded. "We'll make it about now, about _us_."

Draco felt his fingernails dig painfully into his palms as he kept himself restrained. "No, Hermione. It'll only make things harder."

Her eyes were rife with want and pain. "It can't get any harder than this."

"Trust me, it can," Draco told her firmly. "It will." He brought his hands up to her shoulders, poised to push her away. "I won't do that to you—I _can't _do it to myself."

"Please." She was begging him now, her hands holding either side of his face. _Stay with me. Love me..._

That voice, that word, that look in her eyes... they were tempting him with their artlessness. He could see the way they openly implored him—to hold her, to take her. He could feel desperation in the way her hands gripped his skin. His eyes slowly fell from her eyes to her lips... and then traveled lower, scanning over her collarbones, the swell of cleavage, the white-clad curves of her hips and waist.

His breathing began to tumble in and out in silent, shallow bursts. And then suddenly he couldn't stop his hands, his arms, any longer. They wrapped around her waist, pulling her flush against him. "I shouldn't do this, Hermione," he told her darkly. "You shouldn't let me."

"I don't care about should or shouldn't anymore," she breathed, closing her eyes briefly at the feel of his hands roaming over her back, up her sides, pulling her closer. "I just want to be with you."

Draco swallowed. He shook his head, trying to clear the passion, trying to remember reason. "I'm still leaving tomorrow," he warned her, looking from her eyes to her lips. "I'll come back a different person."

"You'll have a memory." _Of the man you used to be. Of the woman who loved that man._

Draco's head and heart were in mortal combat, and his head was losing the epic battle. Hermione was here, she was close, and she was willing to give him everything. He may never have that much again. Why couldn't he have this one night? If he didn't make love to her now, wouldn't he spend every waking moment regretting it? Wouldn't he spend the rest of his life wondering?

"It can't be anyone but you." Her voice was pleading, her brown eyes begging him. "It just can't."

The words caused the last bit of resistance to melt. He bent his head, his lips masterfully, passionately sliding over hers. She smiled into his mouth, feeling the answer.

It would be him. Thank God it would be him…

Draco lifted her, turned, pressing her up against the wall. His tongue smoothed over hers, and he groaned when she tilted her head, deepening the kiss. His hands were running down over her hips, gripping her waist. He wanted to touch her everywhere all at once… he _had _to. His hands roamed to the swell of her behind, pulling her roughly against him.

Hermione gasped at the intimate contact. She could feel Draco's desire pressing against her, the sensation hot and new.

She should have been afraid. The evidence of his need for her should have filled her with anxiety. Everything in life had taught her to be wary of this. But she felt fine, felt great—felt _alive_. This was Draco… he would never force her. He would never hurt her. The past and the future melted away, leaving her lost in the beautiful burning fire of this one moment.

The thoughts were quickly evaporating from her head, replaced by a rush of exhilaration.

This was happening. This was really happening.

Draco's hands went to the hem of her dress, brushing her thighs as he brought the material up above her hips. A low moan came from his throat as he felt her bare skin against his hands, smooth and warm. His mouth left hers to travel down her throat, then up again. Passion overwhelmed him, driving him, making him lose his head. He pulled away briefly, his breathing labored, his eyes intense.

"I have to go slow," he said, ardently kissing her temple, her cheek. She smiled as he lifted her, wrapping her legs around his waist. The feel of her against him was maddening.

Lips and tongues still fusing, he carried her under the archway, down their little corridor, too wrapped up in each other to hear the shocked reactions of Randolph Delphi and Lady Barbara. They neared the painting of the serpent, but instead of going through, he pushed her back against it.

Hermione could hear the snake's disapproving hiss in her ear, but it was like an echo from far away.

"Draco," she half-whispered, half-moaned, when his mouth finally left hers to hungrily open over her throat. "Draco, the password."

At first he didn't hear her. He was on another plane of reality, where only the smell of her skin and the feel of her legs wrapped tight around his waist existed.

"Draco... the bed..."

_The bed..._ Draco pulled back, just enough for his eyes to sear into hers. Slowly, he let one powerful hand caress down the side of her abdomen and over her leg, their eyes staring heatedly into each other as he slowly pushed it down. She let him, standing, following as he took her by the shoulders and pulled her with him as he backed away. He said the password over her shoulder, and the portrait swung open, clearing the path to the promised paradise within. Their eyes were still watching each other as he began to push her backwards into the darkened room, were still watching as he pushed her back onto the bed.

Coming over her, he began to kiss her once again, his tongue working magic on her. Hermione's hands found the bottom of his shirt; she ran them underneath it, feeling his skin, the muscles of his abdomen. He sat up, grabbing the hem and bringing it over his head.

Taking her hands in his, he pressed them against his bare chest. "Touch me," he commanded softly, urgently.

"Where?" Hermione asked, her breathing rough, her hands shaking as they ran over his chest, his shoulders. "Here?"

"Anywhere."

He lowered again, bringing his face just above hers, letting his breath mingle with hers, making one breath.

Hermione moved as if in a trance, her hands streaking over him in awe. Draco, too, was under the spell. His fingers moved of their own accord to the zipper at her side, brining it down to open the beautiful dress, sliding it off of her.

Draco was hit with a sudden wave of tenderness, causing him to slow. His thoughts were foreign and sobering, but he embraced them easily. This was how it could've been on their wedding night: him, slowly stripping her of her white silk dress, finding the lace she wore underneath; her, lifting her eyes to him shyly, keeping them open, the honey brown saying that she trusted him with everything. That she wasn't afraid.

Yes, he thought, coming over her again. He would look back on this night as his marriage bed. He would think of this woman as his wife.

_Beautiful…_

"Sit up," he whispered huskily. Without question, she obeyed, letting him reach around her and unhook her lacey bra. She blushed prettily with embarrassment. "You have nothing to be ashamed of," he assured her, his eyes hungry, his hands eager. Taking the bra away from her skin, his gaze sharpened, heated. Her alabaster skin was soft, smooth, her breasts the perfect shape and size. _She _was perfect… in every way.

"You're stunning," he said passionately.

_It isn't real, you know… It's just a spell…_

Hermione pushed the words away. Draco had seen her skin, really seen it. He knew what she truly looked like, who she really was beneath the magic. And he hadn't turned away. She felt the insecurities begin to fade; they disappeared completely when she felt his mouth close over her breast.

She moaned, her hands coming to hold his head, pushing him closer against her. His tongue was wet against her skin, causing the rosy tip to harden with excitement. He kissed his way to her other breast, repeating the sensual action.

Draco wanted more, wanted it in a hurry. He wasn't used to taking his time, but he wanted to, _needed to_ with her. _I have to go slow… I have to go slow…_

He wanted to touch every part of her with every part of him, and wanted it now. He wanted to kiss her everywhere, wanted her to kiss him...

_Go slow… Go slow…_

Looking back up, he moved a deliberate hand down her stomach, inching lower and lower, watching the headiness glaze over her eyes. He reached underneath the lacey panties, sliding his fingers over her center. She gasped as he touched her, closed her eyes, breaking their gazes, rapture washing over her face. That look was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

He had always been preoccupied with his own pleasure—but hers was the driving force now. He didn't only want to take. He wanted to _give_. He wanted to give her everything, every part of him.

Hermione felt his hand begin to touch her intimately. The movement should have scared her, or brought unwanted pictures from her past. But it didn't. Suddenly, she couldn't remember those days. She couldn't remember the past, the broken girl she'd been, couldn't remember the father that had made her that way. She couldn't remember _anything_, couldn't _think_. Her mind was blissfully blank, filled with Draco, _only _Draco.

He slipped a finger all the way inside of her—and saw red as he felt the liquid heat of her. His gaze turned hot as he looked down at her face, watching with intensity as she bit her lower lip in ecstasy. He inserted another finger, groaned as they penetrated deep. He stroked her, the feeling making both of them dizzy.

"Is this too much?" he asked, breathing hard.

"_No_..." The pleasure was building inside of her, spinning the world around and around. He was doing things to her she had never thought possible, things she'd never dreamed. She'd never known it could be like this, never understood. But it was perfect. With him, it was perfect.

Draco withdrew his hand, and she moaned in disappointment. He laughed, the sound husky and warm. "It's not over," he promised her, kissing her mouth, running his tongue over hers. "It hasn't even begun."

Hermione felt him slowly tug the lace down over her thighs, down her legs, revealing all of her to his heated silver gaze. She was aware that she should be nervous, but all of that had somehow disappeared. No, she wasn't the timid, abused little girl. This was the bold Hermione now, the one that she'd been for those few minutes in that dusty spare classroom. This was the strong young woman, the one Draco had helped her become.

A woman totally unafraid. A woman completely in love.

Her fingers went to his zipper, drawing it down. Eager, she began to tug at the pants, and he helped her to pull them down. His eyes closed, and he groaned harshly at the feel of her gentle hand gripping him, his hand coming around hers, forcing her to hold him tighter.

"God," he moaned, his voice strained as if in pain. He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. It didn't work. He couldn't lose control, not with her. He had to keep his head, had to try. He looked into her eyes. "I'll stop if you ask me to," he told her, needing to say it, needing her to know.

He didn't add that it would kill him.

A tenderness filled Hermione. He _would _stop, she knew. He would die before forcing her.

She guided him closer, _closer_, positioning him at her opening. She was looking into his eyes, into his soul; felt him looking back. A small smile spread across her face.

And suddenly she had to say it, had to tell him. He couldn't leave not knowing. She couldn't let him.

"Draco…" she whispered to him. He watched her through lust-filled eyes. "Draco. I'm in love with you."

The words hit his heart, and the whole world went silent. Everything dissolved around him, everything but her. She loved him. She _loved _him. Suddenly, everything was right. Suddenly, he was complete.

He watched her, his silver eyes, so close to hers, stormy and intense. But he didn't answer. No matter how much he wanted to, he couldn't return the words. It wouldn't be fair—wouldn't be _safe_. No matter how much control he lost, he couldn't, _wouldn't_, let himself go that far. He couldn't do it, not to either of them.

He couldn't tell her…

But he could show her.

He bent his head, brought his lips to hers for a long, sweeping kiss. And then slowly, he drew back. "I'll stop if you ask me to," he said again, breathing hard.

She only smiled softly. "I won't ask you," she whispered, and guided him closer.

He was deep inside with a single stroke. Her silken walls gripped him tightly, keeping him in, holding him close. He shut his eyes tight, as if he were in pain. She fit him like a glove. They had been built for one another.

His eyes intense as they watched hers, Draco began to rock his hips, moving slowly, pushing deep. She was so hot, so wet, so perfect. He was in heaven—_she_ was heaven. He'd never felt this before, not with any woman, not in any bed—had never been shaken like this. Experience had made him jaded, unaffected. For the first time, he was affected, overwhelmed—breathless as passion and pleasure drowned him, unsteady, even as he touched her with sure hands.

Hermione was lost at the feel of him over her, inside of her, lost at the feel of his hands clutching her so desperately, of his palms running so masterfully over her skin. She felt herself sinking as he sank deeper into her… felt her heart racing, felt her body trembling, felt her breath tumbling in and out. She felt her hands on him, too, rubbing his back, gripping his waist, cupping the back of his neck, stroking damp skin. She could hear herself quietly moaning as he moved, couldn't stop—didn't want to.

_Never_ wanted to.

Draco couldn't keep himself from moving faster, harder inside of her, and she held onto him, naturally following where he led. She wrapped her legs around him, changing the angle, bringing him in further. He groaned, whispering her name, whispering it again, and again, and again. Everything else faded away. There was nothing on earth but them, nothing but this. For once, the universe made sense. For once, time stood still. They took each other, passion driving them, filling them, completing them—then, when they reached as high as they could go, emptying them with one final powerful stroke.

Moments passed, silent except for the sound of their harsh breathing, still except for the last heaves of their brushing chests. Breath ragged, eyes still glazed over, Draco slowly, reluctantly, began to pull out of her.

"Wait," she whispered, holding him still. He paused. "I don't want it to end yet."

_I don't want _us _to end._

His jaw clenched. A look came into his eyes… dark, haunted. He understood the silent meaning behind her words, and it made his heart ache. He obeyed, staying where he was, over her, inside of her, letting calm begin to fall. He combed his fingers through her soft, straight hair, brushing it away from her damp face. Gently, he kissed her forehead, her nose, her lips.

She was his. This moment made her his.

But eventually, he had to pull away, and she sighed as the quiet sadness returned. It was ending. All of it was ending.

Draco felt the darkness begin to edge its way back into his heart. He slowly pulled her naked form into his arms, and she held him close, as if trying to protect him from it. She let her head rest on his shoulder, peering tiredly up at his face. He kept his eyes open, but she could see the exhaustion behind the silver. "Sleep," she whispered to him, brushing her fingers over his eyelids, closing them.

"I shouldn't," he said back.

There was fear, she realized, and immediately wanted to soothe. She reached up, cupping his cheek softly. "It's okay," she urged, her voice a whisper. "I'll make sure you're okay."

Her voice, so soft and sweet, was like a lullaby. He meant to stay awake, but the comfort she provided was overpowering his will. The exhaustion he'd held at bay for months, even years, was finally falling over him in waves, until the comforting sound of her voice in his ear had become a distant echo through the water. Serenity settled over him, until he was no longer conscious of tomorrow, of the Mark that would soon adorn his forearm, of the empty vial he had yet to fill. All he was conscious of was _her_ in his arms. And for the first time in his life, he was completely at peace.

Hermione watched him, smiling sadly as he drifted off to sleep, wondering if anyone had ever loved this much before.

Quietly, she pulled away from him. Laying flat on her back, she stared at the ceiling. Only moments ago, it had felt like the earth had stopped turning, like Fate had finally conceded, freezing time for them alone. But it seemed now like the minutes were moving in fast-forward, making up for the time in which their world had stood still.

Her eyes wandered the room sadly, memorizing what it looked like. She had never been in here before—and never would be again. She would never sleep in his bed, never rest wrapped up in his arms.

She looked at Draco's sleeping face, smiled sadly. She would never be with this man again.

Her eyes fell fondly to the pair of dark pants that lay crumpled at the foot of the bed—and then turned dulled at what they saw there.

Fate was laughing at her, she thought, as her brown eyes found what could only be the glass vial from Harry's dreams. It rested an inch or so away from the trousers, half hidden by the wrinkled folds of the duvet. It must have been in Draco's pant pocket, she thought numbly, and fallen out as they'd dragged them down.

She reached out and took it up into her hands, staring at it without emotion.

_I'm afraid there is nothing to do, _she heard Dumbledore's voice replay in her mind. _We must let Fate take its course..._

_Your blood… _The words were like a bell ringing, echoing in her head.

_Your blood… your blood… your blood… your blood…_

And suddenly she knew what she had to do.

Hermione quietly rose from the bed, glancing at Draco to be sure she didn't wake him. She smiled sadly. He was sleeping soundly, his white-blond hair falling over his eyes. Her heart aching, she turned to find her wand amongst the clothes that were strewn on the ground. She picked it up and, without bothering to dress herself, walked into the bathroom, gently closing the door behind.

Stepping to the mirror, she unscrewed the tiny cork and let the vial sit open on the edge of the sink. She looked into her reflection, into her eyes. They were dull again, lifeless, as they had been so long ago. Had it really only been a couple of months? It had seemed like ages, like lifetimes ago.

She looked down to the empty container. It was such an unfair exchange. He had given her the world again. He had breathed _life _back into her. And what did she have to repay him with? A single night of passion and a tiny vial of blood…

_Blood_. It was so cheap. She'd always shed it so easily. Which is why she couldn't fathom why it would be worth anything to Voldemort. But she knew because it was that this meant everything for Draco. Somehow she knew her blood was the difference between live or die.

Did it equal all he had given to her? No—never. No matter how she tried or what she gave, it would never be enough.

But for tonight, it would have to do. Draco Malfoy had saved her. He had taught her how to feel again, how to love again, how to _trust_ again. And so she would show him that she loved him, that she trusted him—with her blood, with her _life_… with her heart. She would shed every last drop of herself if she had to, if only to make it up to him, if only to make it right.

With a whispered word, a light shot from Hermione's wand before disappearing in the air. Without taking her eyes from where they stared into her reflection, she held out her hand. Pressing the tip into her palm, she slowly dragged the now-jagged edge hard from one side to the other. Blood began to run in lines from the deep cut, and for a minute Hermione stared, watching it pool, warm and red, in the cup of her hand… watching it slip through her fingers in thin, flowing streams.

Hadn't this helped her once? Hadn't this cleansed her? Strange, how drastically things had changed. She was painless. This act, once her only way of feeling, had turned meaningless somehow. There was no relief, no humanity. She was empty.

She dropped her wand onto the tiles, instead taking up the phial. And then slowly, she closed her hand into a fist, squeezing, letting the blood pour stronger from the slash. It filled the glass container quickly. When the red reached the rim, she took the little cork, pushing it back into place, sealing the tiny bottle again.

She took her wand up, closing the wound with a quiet spell, using the old magic to conceal it. Turning on the faucet, she held the glass under the water, cleaning away the blood that coated the outside. She grabbed a towel, wiping the vial first, then methodically drying out the sink, just like she always used to.

She sighed, meeting her eyes in the mirror.

_Why is it we don't have a choice?_

She turned, dropping the towel onto the tiles, silently opening Draco's door and walking back into his room. Quietly, she set the vial on the bedside table. Without looking at the sleeping man, she conjured a scrap of paper and a quill, quickly scribbling onto the page, and then placing it underneath the container.

Finally, almost reluctantly, she let her eyes fall to the bed. A sheen of tears sparkled there, and for the first time, she didn't try to hide them.

She longed to reach out, to touch him one last time, but didn't for fear that she would wake him. She knew she'd never be able to leave if he did. If she looked into his eyes, she wasn't sure she could let him go.

Drinking in the sight of him, she let one stray tear run down her cheek. No, she wasn't numb, she realized sadly. For the first time, the emptiness was acute, the pain as sharp as a thousand knives.

She swallowed. And then silently, she turned, leaving the room. As she reached the portrait, she longed to turn, to let herself have one last glance. Taking a deep breath in and out, she continued forward without looking back.

_I'm afraid there is nothing to do…_

Dumbledore's words were like prophecy now.

_We must let Fate take its course._

Draco could hear a tapping sound in the back of his mind. He ignored it, causing the noise to became louder, more urgent. Reluctantly, his eyes opened, and he turned his head.

The bed was empty. She was gone.

Draco didn't know whether to be disappointed or grateful, and as he stood from the bed, he found that he was both.

Through the glass he could see that the sun was just coming up over the horizon, spreading light pink over the early morning sky. Quickly, he dressed himself, trying to think. The Task. It wasn't complete. And it was too late to go back and finish it now.

How would he explain? What excuse could he give?

_I love her…_

There was a very real possibility that he would die today. The Dark Lord did not tolerate disobedience. Would he be even more intolerant because Draco was the Heir? Or would the title earn him more time, another Task—another chance?

He knew it may not be him who suffered the consequences at all. What if this time it was Hermione who would pay the price? What if they hurt her? _Killed_ her? What if they sent someone else for the blood? Any other Eater would have no regard for her life. They'd take enough to fill the vial—and leave the rest to pool around her lifeless body on the floor.

How could he help her now? If he died today, there would be no one to protect her. His death would certainly mean her own.

He would have to find a way. Find a way to save Hermione—and himself.

The family owl began to tap on the window again. "I'm coming!" Draco bit off impatiently. With one last look around the room, he moved to take his broom.

And did a double take when his eyes caught sight of the vial on his bedside table.

"_No…_" He lunged at it, grabbing it up and looking inside. The thing was no longer empty, but filled to the brim with dark red. The glass was warm, heated by the blood inside, and the feel of it against his palm had sickness curling in his stomach.

It couldn't be. She couldn't have known.

Dread filled him. She_ couldn'_t have… could she?

Draco's eyes fell to the small scrap of paper. He grabbed it up and read the careful script, a frown creasing his brows.

_I know you don't want to do this. But you will. You have to. You were right—you don't have a choice._

_You gave me the world. I'm sorry I didn't have more to give you than this._ _I'm sorry it's such an unfair exchange._

Draco's jaw clenched and his hand fisted, crumpling the paper in his grasp. The sickening image of Hermione slowly cutting her wrists—slicing through her skin to fulfill _his _destiny—flashed like a nightmare before his eyes. He'd spent the last months trying to bring her away from that, and somehow he had managed to drag her back to it all over again.

He shook his head. He wouldn't do this, couldn't do it. Not to her. If Voldemort had her blood, there was no telling what he would do with it, what he would use it for. There was no telling what would happen.

It could be her death sentence…

And it hurt him deep inside, because Hermione _knew _that, _had _to know it—and she had filled the vial anyway. She knew the risks, knew that they were steep. Why had she done this? Why was she sacrificing her safety, herself?

_Draco…_ Her voice played in his mind, an angel and a demon. _Draco, I'm in love with you…_

Her words echoed in his head. Had she done this for him? He looked at the note again. The answer stared him back in the face. Yes_… yes_, she had. She had been willing to risk her life to save his.

The damned bird was tapping again.

_Why is it we don't have a choice?_

This was it, he realized numbly. The darkness was on the horizon, rising with the sun. He didn't have any choice now but to accept it, to _become _it. He didn't have any choice but to fly off into it, to his doom.

He opened the door to the balcony, broom in hand. Quietly, he moved to the parapet, looked over the stone to where he had first found the broken and bleeding Hermione.

Fate had led him to this precipice, slowly pushing him closer and closer to the edge. He had his own fall to face now. He had his own leap to make. It was his turn to jump—only there was no one to save him once he hit the ground. There was no way to survive.

He climbed onto the flat stone surface, watching the horizon, watching as his father's owl took off, leading the way. A moment passed—one, two. And then Draco leapt from the balcony, pushing his broom underneath him and soaring off after the bird. He felt the sunrise getting closer, felt the castle getting farther and farther away.

He didn't dare look back.

_Things will be different now…_


	13. Marked

_Saving You Summary—DMHG. Hermione Granger has a secret, one that's literally killing her: she has been suffering extreme abuse at the hands of her father. Who will come to her rescue? What if the only one who can is Draco Malfoy? Rated M for sexual content (including rape), suicide ideation, and violence._

_Disclaimer—Most of the characters and a lot of the setting belong to J.K. Rowling. The rest is mine._

A/N: Last updated May 7, 2010.

* * *

**:::Marked:::**

A lifetime came and went before the manor finally appeared on the grey horizon.

Morning mist and autumn fog hazed the air close to the ground. Draco landed, smoothly stepping onto the cobblestone path that weaved around the west gardens. He walked determinedly forward, broom in hand, not sparing a glance at the stern statues that glared down at him from the poisonous patches of hellebores and deadly nightshade that grew all around.

A house-elf was stationed as doorman on the veranda. It jumped to attention as it saw the young master approach, immediately turning, throwing its whole tiny body into pushing the door open for its superior.

Draco, however, was too impatient to wait out the struggle. "Never mind that," he commanded shortly, pushing the thing the rest of the way open and stepping inside. "I need someone to tell my father that I've arrived."

The servant nodded emphatically. "Gobfred can, Master Draco. Right away, sir, Master Draco," it said before scurrying off to find the cold, commanding master of the house.

Draco didn't waste a moment. He headed silently through the room and into one long corridor, working his way from the west wing to the front of the house. He could feel the weight of the vial in his pant pocket as he walked, could feel the scalding warmth of Hermione's blood through the glass, through the material, burning all the way to his skin. But he didn't stop, didn't so much as hesitate. The words on her note, so like the words he'd once spoken to her, were driving him onward—against his instincts, against his desires. The truth was there, forcing him forward.

_Why is it we don't have a choice?_

He strode into the empty drawing room, crossed to where a window seat provided a perfect view of his grandmother's rose garden. The little courtyard was still pristine, even now long after the matron's death, the bushes pruned and shaped, the stems stiff, the vines growing just as they should along the fence. Everything about Malfoy Manor emanated order, all perfectly placed, dutifully done up. Not even the flowers dared to be disobedient.

It was only a matter of moments before the familiar sound of Lucius Malfoy's voice cut into the silence.

"There you are! My God, you're late." His father was suddenly at his side, looking him up and down with his usual annoyance. "And disturbingly underdressed," he added with blatant disapproval. His silver eyes scanned his son, examining the wind-blown hair and the wrinkled robe with distaste. "You're a mess. You almost look as if you flew here." Draco looked away, causing his father's eyes to narrow. "You _flew _here?" he demanded in disbelief. His gaze found the expensive broom that rested against the wall of its own accord. "You didn't think that perhaps a fireplace or portkey would be more prudent?" When his son made no reply, he shook his head. "I suppose I should be grateful you decided to grace us with your presence at all…"

Draco didn't respond with his usual sarcasm. He didn't speak. He could barely _think_. It wasn't fear. It was overwhelming sadness. It was the thought of tomorrow, of how it wouldn't be what he had hoped. How it would be something darker, something far more gruesome.

How it wouldn't be with her.

Lucius watched Draco with skeptical eyes. Dillydallying and improper attire not withstanding, he was pleasantly surprised by this version of his son. There was no quick wit or biting sarcasm. There was no wry apathy or wild impulse. Draco had finally wiped away the droll smirk and replaced it with a more sober look. For the first time, it seemed that the willful boy Lucius had always known might actually be transforming into the son he'd always hoped for, not a prodigal prince, but a dutiful one—proud, serious, and, above all, _obedient_.

Of course, knowing Draco, this wouldn't be a sincere or permanent transformation, but, rather, a fleeting glimpse of what could—what should—be.

The thought had Lucius' agitation returning. "Thank your stars the Dark Lord has yet to arrive," he went on crisply. "Only a fool would dare to keep him waiting—and then to present himself looking like… _this_." He gestured vaguely to his son. "We'll have to clean you up, and quickly. You there—" He snapped a finger, stopping a house-elf who was dusting a tea table across the room. "Have my wife fetch something more suitable from my son's closet." He didn't wait as the maid dropped her feather duster and ran to obey. Retrieving his wand from the dark folds of his robe, he conjured a washbowl and cloth for the younger man. "Wash your face and comb your hair," he commanded coolly—relishing the moments after when Draco didn't retort or refuse, only silently obeyed.

Minutes passed, the only sound in the silence the _drip drip_ of the water as it trickled from Draco's hands back into the basin. He patted the cloth against his face, drying it, then turning to face his father again.

Lucius was shifting from one foot to the other, his gaze snapping impatiently between the empty doorway and the antique clock that ticked from the mantelpiece. "What's keeping her?" he complained sternly. "Where in God's name is she?"

"Here," came a smooth voice from across the room.

Draco looked up to find Narcissa Malfoy in the entranceway. She looked beautiful, as always, her blonde hair pulled back, braided and curled into an intricate Grecian up-do. Her tall, straight form was draped in a luxurious robe, and hidden underneath, he knew, was one extravagant gown or another, which she would no doubt show off at the reception.

"Finally," Lucius said as his wife entered—and then he stiffened, a movement echoed by his son. "And you've brought Pansy along with you," he observed tightly as a prim-looking Pansy followed her into the room, a garment bag draped carefully over one arm. He turned to the newcomer and forced himself to smile, but the lift of lips was more tense than warm. "Charmed, as always, Miss Parkinson," he said politely. "Though I do wish my wife had waited until our son was _presentable_ to see you in." The last part of the sentence was said with pointed accusation, and was directed more at the older woman than the younger one.

Narcissa only smiled in her drab, easy way. "She overheard the house-elf tell me about our little crisis and offered to lend me her assistance." Lucius sent her a warning glance, but she merely kept on that statuesque smile. "She knows his tastes far better than I do," she reasoned coolly. "And I thought it would be perfect practice. She will, after all, be spending a great deal of time attending to such things in the future."

"In the future," her husband agreed. "Today, however, she is still a guest. And, as I said before, he isn't presentable."

"I'm sure she'll be seeing him in far less decent states of dress," Narcissa told him. She sent her son a dry look. "That is, of course, if she hasn't already."

Draco stiffened.

"I see his reputation precedes him," the ever-coy Pansy stated, calmly and cleverly sidestepping a straight answer.

"Unfortunately," Lucius replied with a tight smile. "But I am reassured by the impeccability of yours."

The younger woman bent her head graciously at that.

Lucius held out a patient hand. "May I see your selection?" he asked her. She came forward, presenting him with the garment bag. He unzipped it, revealing a dark, beautiful robe, its black material neatly pressed and shining. "Yes, yes, much better," he decided with a nod. He glanced to his son. "Well, Draco, it appears our women have saved the day."

The words 'our women' had Draco's jaw visibly clenching—and had Pansy's tactful smile turning feline with satisfaction.

Lucius handed the bag and its contents back to Pansy, who uncased the garment as she crossed the room. "Take that old thing off. Quickly," he barked at his son. The younger man obeyed, shedding his robe and throwing it across an antique sofette that stood nearby before sliding his arms into the sleeves that Pansy held open for him. "See that that miserable rag is thrown out immediately," Lucius added, nodding in disgust to the discarded coat.

"I'll do it, darling," Narcissa said acquiescently. She came forward to retrieve the supposed rag. "Once I strip the buttons, of course," she added thoughtfully, fingering one small shiny knob. "We wouldn't want solid gold to go to waste." She considered it for another moment before folding it over her arm and shaking her head. "It's a shame how quickly the fashions change. I was quite fond of the shorter sleeve."

Pansy looked over her shoulder. "Draco doesn't follow the trends. He makes them," she said with pride.

"Then I wonder why he arrived here in _this_," Narcissa said back blandly. "You didn't think the occasion warranted a trip to the tailor?" she asked her son.

Draco's grey gaze went dark. "There were more important preparations to be made."

"And did you make them?" Lucius cut in expectantly, his voice slicing the air, his silver eyes alert.

Draco swallowed. He was aware of the vial of blood against his thigh—couldn't _stop_ being aware of it, no matter how he tried. He gritted his teeth, slowly nodded. "Surprised?" he asked bitterly.

Lucius crossed his arms. "Relieved," he corrected.

He began to turn away when something materialized in the air before him—a miniature scroll, tied together by a delicate black ribbon. "A summons." He snatched the thing from its hovering, impatiently pulling the bow and unraveling the tiny paper to find the message within. "The Dark Lord has arrived," he said as his eyes scanned the page. He looked up, his intense gaze meeting his son's. "He wants to see you in my study. Narcissa, Pansy—you'll have to excuse us."

"Of course," Pansy answered sweetly. She turned back to Draco. Carefully, she brushed the shoulders of his robes, an action so domestic that it had his fists tightening. She reached to her tiptoes, gently kissed his cheek. "See you on the other side," she whispered, her voice low and teasing—and utterly victorious—in his ear.

Draco said nothing, only watched her darkly.

"Draco. Come along," Lucius' impatient voice prompted.

Silently, obediently, Draco pushed past his future wife and followed his father out of the room—feeling the phial of Hermione's blood against his leg with every step.

* * *

He could hear the jingling of his father's ring of keys long before they reached the study's entrance. Lucius wasted no time in inserting the proper one into the keyhole, turning it slowly and opening the door.

Everything was as it had been the two previous times Draco had been allowed inside. The books were in their same rows on the shelves of the cases and cabinets. The curtains were still drawn along the two gothic windows that reached from ceiling to floor, allowing the muted rays of morning sun to shine onto the throne-like chair and the regal desk it sat behind. The other seats in the room all still sat empty, waiting eternally for the guests that were so rarely permitted into the room.

And, just like that first night so many years ago, there was that _voice_… the one that had been so daunting, even in its weakness.

"So the much-awaited day arrives at last."

It came from some unknown place—from all around—stronger now than it had been all those years ago, smoother, the rasp replaced by oil and warmth.

Lucius stepped slowly into the room, and Draco followed, stoic, his dark eyes scanning the seemingly empty space for the source of the sound—searching for the face that went with the voice.

It appeared then, fading in like a phantom, materializing out of nothing before them, just as his summons had only moments before.

Lord Voldemort had supposedly once been very handsome. But the attractive features that had long ago charmed and seduced were withered now, sunken and pallid, as if somehow over time the body had decayed with the soul. The man before him now was hardly a man at all—and Draco had the sudden unnerving feeling that he was looking at the mere remnants of Tom Riddle. Deathly pale skin clung to a skeleton's face and body. Lightless eyes seared from across the room. His elegant black robe seemed to swarm his slender frame, and his long, bony fingers held tight to his wand—the wand that had infamously struck down so many powerful men.

Draco kept his face like stone. No, you couldn't mistake the skeletal physique for weakness, not when everything else about him reminded you just how dangerous he really was. The Dark Lord _exuded_ power: the way he stood with his chin held high; the way he watched them, dark eyes bright as they regally surveyed; the way he smiled, so satisfied and superior; and the way he spoke, with the command of a king, the kind who masqueraded harshness as justice and disguised volatility with wit.

The corpse-like king stepped away from the window, his strides small and slow, but also deliberate. "Lucius, my friend, I have kept you waiting." His black eyes glanced at Draco. "I am not the only one," he somehow knew. He crossed his black-garbed arms, considering the younger man with dark, assessing eyes. "No apology Draco?" he asked dryly. The younger man made no reply. "Good," he approved. "Only a weak man says he is sorry. And only a _worthless_ man says it and means it." He tilted his head, as if it would give him better perspective. "You're not weak, are you? Or worthless?" he asked. Again, Draco didn't reply, only stayed quiet and still as stone. "Speak, Draco. Are you worthless or aren't you?"

Draco's silver gaze narrowed guardedly. "You made me your Heir. Surely you've already formed an opinion."

Lucius stiffened at the words, but the Dark Lord smiled at the solemn daring. "Surely," he agreed, his voice quiet and simmering. He waved one thin, dismissive hand. "But opinions are capricious, unreliable little things. I prefer facts. I can trust them far better." He leaned back against the front of the desk, half-sitting on the edge of its scratchless surface. No other man would dare to be so familiar with Lucius Malfoy's property—especially right in front of his face. "You see, Draco, I'm not entirely certain about you yet. And that's troublesome because I never deal in uncertain terms. I only ever bet on a sure thing." He looked his supposed protégé up and down. "Tell me, Draco—are you a sure thing?"

Draco said nothing.

"He will be, my lord," Lucius answered for him, quickly, firmly filling the silence.

"I was talking to your son," Voldemort said sharply, not taking his beady black-hole eyes from Draco. "He doesn't seem as hasty to assure me as you do." A moment passed, silence ringing. And then his face cracked into a knowing smile. "It's alright, Draco. You don't have to lie," he laughed easily. "I knew from the beginning you'd be a gamble—right from that first moment I laid eyes on you, here in this very room." His gaze turned affectionately towards the fireplace, where, years before, he had first gazed upon his Heir. "Even then, I could tell you were one of that rare breed," he recalled. "Lawless. Fearless…" He looked back. "I knew you'd grow up to be something special. And you haven't disappointed me." One corner of his mouth twitched. "Not yet, at least."

He waited for Draco to speak, to react—smiled when, yet again, he did neither. "You're so silent," he observed with narrowed eyes. "Far more restrained than I remember you being that night."

Draco kept his face unreadable. "I was a child then," he said.

The Dark Lord slowly nodded his head. "Yes. Young and ingenuous," he remembered fondly. "And not half so cautious as you are today." He paused, considering the man that bold little boy had become. "I suppose you weren't as conscious of danger. You didn't know then what you do now."

"I had an idea. I just didn't care."

Though the tone was taciturn, the words were insolent; they had Lucius' head turning sharply towards his son.

But Voldemort laughed under his breath, half in amusement, half in approval. "Far more restrained," he said again. "But just as audacious underneath." He shook his head. "You're still fearless. I see the child in you yet. You have that same defiant air about you." One side of his face stretched into a crooked half-smile. "You won't stir up too much trouble, will you?" he asked amusedly. "I need just the right amount."

"The boy knows his place, my lord." Lucius promised stiffly. "He knows better than to fail you."

"I sincerely hope you're right," the Dark Lord told his comrade. "Failure would be rather irksome—especially after all that has been sacrificed to bring us to where we are. Specifically, to bring him to where _he _is," he said pointedly, glancing at the man in question. He straightened, standing from his place at the edge of the desk. "Now leave us for a few moments," he commanded, speaking to the older man, but watching the younger one. "There are things I wish to discuss with my Heir—alone, if I may."

Lucius nodded once. "Of course," he said. There was silence as he exited the room.

The two men who remained watched each other intently, one's dark gaze interested, the other's armored—each assessing the other, sizing him up, forming hidden conclusions that both were sure would be revealed in time.

Lord Voldemort was the first to break their gazes. Slowly, he began to move about the room, pacing thoughtfully around the desk to the large window behind, looking out. It seemed like a century before he finally spoke. "Why don't you sit, Draco? Relax for a bit," he offered, one long hand motioning vaguely to the side.

Draco didn't move.

The Dark Lord looked over his shoulder. "Sit down, Draco," he instructed this time, the ease and option vanishing from his voice. "_Please_," he added patiently, his smile slippery-sweet.

Draco watched the chair for a moment before dutifully going to it.

Satisfied, Voldemort turned back to the window, his eyes watching the grey morning mist as it wrapped its way around the trees on the hills beyond the grounds.

"Your father is a hard man to read," he mused mildly after a while. "Not many men are able to see what lies inside that granite gaze." He paused to smile out at the colorless place where the sky met the earth. "I, however, have been fortunate enough to know Lucius well, and for a very long time—since he was practically a boy himself," he went on. "I can tell when he's trying to compensate."

Draco watched the other man's back. "Compensate?" he asked, cautious.

"Yes." Slowly, deliberately, the Dark Lord turned. "He has that guilty look behind his eyes, like he knows he's sold me a car that will only run a few miles." He smiled grimly. "Or that will spin out of control and kill me in the crash."

Draco's gaze was guarded. "Is that what I am? A car?"

Voldemort's mouth curved. "More or less," he answered amusedly. "You are, after all, going to help me get where I want to go."

Draco's eyes narrowed. "And where is that, exactly?"

"You'll know when we get there," the Dark Lord assured him. His smile turned thin and wry at the stone look that crossed Draco's eyes. "I see my answer isn't satisfactory," he stated dryly. "You're used to making all the rules, aren't you? Being the one in control." He stepped forward, his black robe sweeping the floor behind him. "Now, for the first time, you're a part of someone else's game," he said knowingly. "And, for the first time, you're not sure if you're a player or a pawn." He tilted his head. "Am I right?"

"Am _I_ right?" Draco asked back.

Voldemort looked amused. "Are you a pawn, you mean?" he asked. Draco nodded once, causing the wry smile to widen. "Pawns are dispensable, Draco," he informed him quietly. "They're faceless and nameless—trivial little pieces that I position here or there, who use up quickly because they're worth very little at the start." He paused, his intense eyes watching the younger man intently. "You, on the other hand, are a weapon of a different sort. You're rare. You're _essential_," he told him. "Which is why I saved a special place in my arsenal just for you."

Draco said nothing, did nothing, gave nothing away.

"You're still not sure," the Dark Lord somehow knew. "Not easily convinced—not easily _controlled_. It only proves my point," he asserted.

"Does it?"

Voldemort only watched the younger man, his eyes faintly examining. "Things aren't as out of your hands as they seem," he assured him after a while. "As a matter of fact, they're entirely _in _your hands." His dark gaze momentarily fell to Draco's fingers, which were folded judiciously on his lap. "You hold all my little dreams and hopes right there in your palm," he said wistfully. He looked back up. "Which is why I need to know your intentions."

"I don't have any intentions," Draco told him tonelessly. "Like my father said, I know my place."

But Voldemort only shook his head. "Every man has intentions, Draco," he said, his black eyes bright. "Especially a man like you."

"A man like me?"

Voldemort nodded slowly. "You're sharper than most of the tools in my collection. The majority of them are weak, blithering fools who feel no sense of purpose, and so latch onto the Mark in a vain attempt to give meaning to their inconsequential lives. But _you_…" He shook his head. "You are as far from inconsequential as a person can be." His gaze was blackened with something akin to admiration. "You're strong—powerful. I _respect_ you," he said. "There are very few people on this earth who have earned that place in my esteem." He smiled wanly. "Most of them have been my enemies."

"But a few of them managed to be your friend."

"Only a very few," Voldemort assured him. "Strong minds and wills are always in conflict. One always wants to be above the other." His gaze slowly roamed the room. "A great men can never stand to be subordinate. He wants what he wants, and he's never satisfied until he's won." He brought his black eyes back to pierce through Draco's. "So the question remains—what do _you_ want, Draco?"

"What do I want?"

"That's right," Voldemort answered leisurely. "You see, I think you may very well be a great man, Draco. Or, at least, you have the potential to be. And while I respect and admire that volatile ball of budding greatness inside of you, I am shrewd enough to know that it could be entirely detrimental." He exhaled, the sound the hiss of a snake instead of a human breath. "I want to use that rare fearlessness of yours to my advantage. _Our_ advantage," he added coolly. "I want you to be one of the few—at my side and not in my way."

Draco was quiet for two long moments. "I certainly don't want to be in your way," he said finally, only admitting to the half that was true.

Voldemort nodded. "That is very wise of you, Draco. Because the people who get in my way tend to pay a high price for it in the end." One pale corner of his mouth tilted up high. "Even the great ones…"

Draco understood the warning inside the smiling words. But instead of provoking fear, it evoked a dull emptiness. "I'll make sure I always stay a little less great than you," he assured the other man, solemnity and defeat disguising the sarcasm. He bowed his head. "If that's what you want," he added tactfully.

The Dark Lord's opaque orbs seemed to glitter with satisfaction. "I want you to be _exactly_ what you are, Draco—this perfect dichotomy of duty and defiance." He leaned forward. "I'll let you in on a little secret," he said in a mock whisper. "My agenda depends _exclusively_ on it." He straightened again, laughing under his breath, the sound deep and smooth and somehow melodious. "I like the way we started all those years ago, Draco. I like that we're picking up right where we left off." He crossed his arms, his approving gaze scanning up and down. "You didn't cower or snivel. And you are just as daring now as you were then." He nodded, almost to himself, as if deciding for the first time that he liked what he saw. "It's that natural superiority," he told the younger man. "I've only met a few others with that same innate command." He looked thoughtful. "They would have made fine assets. I hope I did right in choosing a wild card over the safer bets."

"I guess we'll find out," Draco said quietly.

Voldemort's smile slowly grew. "We most certainly will." After one last long pause, he motioned for the boy to stand. He moved across the room, to where Lucius waited behind the door. "We're ready now," he told the stern, silver-eyed man.

Draco watched as, together, the two old comrades began to make their way out of the room and down the corridor.

"Coming, Draco?" that silky, satisfied voice sang from somewhere just out of sight.

Solemnly, dutifully, he followed behind.

* * *

People were spread out as far as the eye could see, creating an ocean of observers inside the east garden. Draco moved through them, silent, sober, hating the smiles that seemed to lift up their lips in unison. The event was to be as historic as the coronation of any king: only those wealthy, influential, or clever enough to win an invitation had done so. Of course, of those, only the most enterprising of them had had the nerve to come.

He didn't recognize many or even most of the faces—but he didn't question that every last guest was either part of or connected to the elite.

"Arriving fashionably late, eh?" one such person chortled as Draco passed—a man he had never met or even seen before today. He didn't respond, only clenched his jaw tight.

Heads were turning. Eyes were widening in awe as he approached. Everyone wanted to get a better look, wanted to touch him, as if he was some deity that had fallen from the stars. It took all of his strength not to cringe away from them, to stay calm and collected as he pushed his way through the throngs.

But then, all at once, the masses caught sight of the hooded man that slowly slinked after him—the Dark Lord, they realized, half in wonder and worship, half in dread. The crowd immediately opened up, parting like the waters of the Red Sea. Gazes averted, heads lowered in reverence. Voices died and silence settled in, until all that was left of the excited buzz were the echoes of the leaves as they rustled in the wind.

Draco made his way to the end of the garden, where long stocks of foxglove created a barrier that fenced him in. He turned, facing the waiting congregation. Chairs were set up in long even rows, reserved for the First Circle and other important guests. Most had already found their way to their seats—the Parkinsons, he could see, and Blaise Zabini and his mother, and other members of aristocratic families all draped in their finest robes and jewels. The rest hung in the background, standing in clumps along the cobblestone pathways, among the flowerbeds and stone sculptures, sporadically lifting to their tiptoes, trying to see over one another to the place where young Malfoy stood.

Draco silently looked back at them, his unaffected eyes scanning from face to face. They seemed vague, dull, blending into the foggy sky and misty morning wind; if it hadn't been for the sprays of color in the garden's toxic plants, Draco was sure the entire world would be glazed by grey.

"An impressive turnout," his mother's voice said coolly from beside him. "And a very select group. Everyone who's anyone has come to see you in your prime." She smiled, but there was no love in her eyes, and Draco wondered when he had last seen the emotion there—or if he ever had at all.

"My prime, mother?" he asked her mildly.

She carefully picked a tiny flower petal that had fallen to her sleeve, aloofly let it trickle from her fingers and into the breeze. "Don't sound so sardonic, Draco. And don't look so dour. It doesn't reflect well," she informed her son.

But Draco didn't care about keeping up appearances. He hadn't come for the dancing, or the society, or the food. He hadn't come to build bridges or climb the social ladder, hadn't come to casually schmooze the way so many others had. He was here for one thing and one thing alone—and it wasn't a party. It wasn't for fun.

Voldemort had reached their side of the garden, and Draco watched warily as he talked quietly with Pansy's father.

He felt more than saw his own father come up beside him.

Lucius followed his son's silver gaze. "You spoke too freely in that study, Draco," he said under his breath. "I've told you a thousand times—when the Dark Lord speaks, you listen. If he asks a question, you answer." He glanced to the side, to where his son stood at his shoulder. "Any more or any less is entering dangerous territory," he told him seriously.

"You also all but beat it into me that he sees through pretenses. And people," Draco said dully. "I thought honesty would be the best policy."

Lucius crossed his arms, considering his son with narrowed, barely-patient eyes. "In our world, there's fine line between honesty and impudence. You were teetering on it," he accused. "There are certain expectations—respect, deference. When one doesn't measure up, they begin to look like damaged goods."

"I am what I am," Draco said back. His deadened gaze looked to the Dark Lord. "He should know what he's getting," he said, quieter, haunted.

Lucius' smile was tense and tired. "Well, you certainly showed him," he stated tightly. "And it is pure _dumb luck_ that he approves of what he sees."

Draco glanced to the side. "How can you tell that he approves?"

Lucius arched his brow in that dry Malfoy way. "He walked out of my study still wanting you as his Heir."

Draco looked away again. There was silence.

"Are you nervous?" Lucius asked him after a while.

"No," Draco answered solemnly. It wasn't a lie. He didn't feel nervous, didn't feel anything at all—nothing but the cool tingle of his heart freezing over, numbing him completely. "Will the ceremony take long?" he asked, hoping that it wouldn't. The sooner it was all over, the better.

"Not long," his father replied, his pale gaze assessing the spectators. He took a pocket watch from the breast pocket of his robe, glancing at the time before putting it away. "Not half as long as the anticipation makes it seem," he added agitatedly.

Voldemort turned, as if omnisciently aware of the collective feeling of impatience. He stepped away from the group of men at his side and towards the ones that waited at the front of the garden. "Come, Draco," he said, holding out one death-white hand, urging him closer. "We shall begin."

Draco longed to back away, to back _out_, but he couldn't. So, head held high, he moved to stand before the Dark Lord.

Those who hadn't already taken their seats quickly moved to do so, shaking hands and saying whispered helloes as they made their way to their places. The others—who weren't important enough to deserve the unobstructed view from a lawn chair—were left standing in rows just behind.

Voldemort waited to speak until he felt the eyes of every last lamb in his flock. "Now that our audience has graced us with their undivided attention, the ceremony can commence." He looked to Draco. "That is… if we're ready," he said with faint amusement.

Draco was suddenly keenly aware of the phial of blood weighing down his pant pocket. But he said nothing, made no denial or complaint—which was confirmation enough to satisfy his master.

The Dark Lord nodded slowly. "We'll begin with your vows." He looked to Lucius, held out an expectant hand. "The book, if you please, Lucius."

Lucius snapped his fingers, and out of the crowd came scurrying a young boy, no more than eleven or twelve, who held in both hands a small leather-bound book. He was no doubt the son of one of the elite, selected from only the best and brightest to bear the sacred book.

The boy's gaze was serious, old before its time, wise from harsh lessons and strict rules, the same kind Draco had been subjected to by his father, and his father by his. There was still some innocence left in them though, still some light clinging to the practiced sobriety. But Draco knew that it wouldn't last forever, or even for long. One day, that boy would be a man standing in this same place. He would look upon the young book bearer, just as Draco was doing now, and recall that long ago time that was now nothing more than a faded memory—a time before the grim numbness, when he too had been pure.

The child stood beside the Dark Lord like an altar boy with the pope, dutifully holding the book open for his superior to read.

Voldemort traced one gaunt finger over the faded words, his beady eyes narrowing, his pale fingertip tapping when it found the proper place. And then he began to speak.

"Do you, Draco Malfoy, swear lifelong dedication to the cultivation of the Arts, to the quest for infinite knowledge and divine mastery of your craft, though that quest may lead not only high into the sky, but also deep underground into the recesses of the earth; though it may bring not only light, but also darkness and shadow; though it may dwell not only in the cloudless day, but also in the starless night. Do you swear to tread forth towards victory, though you may sacrifice as much as gain, though your pathway may be paved with blood as much as gold?" He looked up expectantly.

Draco didn't move, didn't blink. "I do."

_What power was there, to live in fear?_

"Do you pledge allegiance to your Dark Lord, in whose name you will fight, in whose honor you will live and die."

Draco's voice was firm. "I do."

_What freedom was there, to call another man 'Master'?_

"Do you swear lifelong loyalty to the brothers and sisters who bear the emblem of our brotherhood. Do you vow to stand behind them in their endeavors, to fight beside them in their battles, to keep their secrets and further their causes, even in the face of death."

"I do."

_There was none, and he knew it…_

"All those of the First Circle in attendance please stand." Voldemort looked out upon the men who silently rose. "I ask you now to accept Draco Malfoy into your circle, to recognize and embrace him as your brother," he told them. "If any one of you has basis to object, speak now or forever keep your silence." A long moment passed, perfectly still. And then the Dark Lord nodded slowly. "Then who among you will verify the admittance by bearing official witness to this man's Joining?"

Draco looked into his father's silver eyes, and for a brief second in time, he could have sworn he saw humanity there. Pain there. Regret.

_He suspected his father knew it, too, probably a minute too late…_

The look left his eyes just as quickly as it came, leaving nothing but the familiar coldness. "I will."

Voldemort smiled. "Then it is time." Gently, he flipped the book closed in the young boy's grasp. He stepped forward, his black eyes eager. "We must make our exchange, Draco. The Dark Mark for your Task."

For the blood. For _Hermione Granger's _blood.

Draco reached into his robes, his fingers going around the glass container, tightening into a vise grip. His knuckles were white as he brought it out into the open.

The monster he now called _master_ held out one long, pale hand, waited.

Draco looked at the phial. He didn't want to do this. He didn't want to…

_But you will… You have to…_

He saw the words in his mind, saw them written in Hermione's careful cursive.

_Why is it we don't have a choice?_

He kept his face like stone, but he felt sick to his stomach as he handed the vial to Voldemort, felt even sicker when he saw the wolfish smile that stretched across the skull-like face. Though his heartbeat threatened to pound, he kept it under control, even as he watched the container disappear into the deep pockets of the Dark Lord, out of Draco's eyesight—and out of his control.

"Your arm, Draco," the older man commanded in that oil-smooth voice.

Draco wanted so badly to run away, to somehow escape this place, these people—escape from this moment, from his fate. Instead, he slowly pushed his sleeve up and dutifully held out his arm.

_Once the Dark Mark was melted into your skin, it could never be removed..._

He could feel the cool tip of Voldemort's wand against his skin. And then everything was happening in slow motion.

"_Morsmordre!_" the Dark Lord's voice said, a smug whisper that seemed to come from far away.

There was no pain. Only a serene peace, a silent sadness… So last night really had been goodbye, he thought to himself as the world around him flashed emerald-bright. Goodbye to Hermione, goodbye to himself. Goodbye to that innocent boy he'd been once and the man that boy had had the potential to become.

There _had_ been a bit of innocence left, he realized—just enough to believe that he would somehow find a way…

Just enough to be crushed and killed for good.

Draco Malfoy was dead now, in his place an empty shell, built for service, destined for darkness. Whatever life he'd lived before, whatever woman he had loved, whatever woman had loved him—it all had been a fantasy, a delusion, a dream. He was awake now to the cold, cruel reality. And he knew he'd never sleep or dream that dream again.

"I present to you Draco Malfoy of the First Circle." Light, polite applause broke out. Voldemort looked with sly affection, first at the audience and then back to Draco. "Long live the Heir," he added smoothly.

The crowd gasped in surprise and then quickly bowed their heads. "Long live the Heir," they dutifully chorused.

Draco's eyes were absent as they stared beyond the sea of bent heads.

So it was done. It was finally done.

* * *

Many were too afraid to approach him afterward. The news of his place as the successor to the throne had the followers even more wide-eyed and skittish in his presence. In this world of darkness, it was better to go unseen and unheard; the master's favorites, the ones with the power, were always the ones with the most to lose. The higher you climbed, the farther you could fall. It was best not to speak, or even to look. No one in the congregation wanted to offend the infamously changeable Heir. They had no doubt that the notorious son of Lucius Malfoy had already started taking names.

There was one family, however, that was confident in stepping forward. Unlike the others, the news of Draco Malfoy's position was no surprise to the Parkinsons. They had _counted_ on the fact that young Draco was a probable candidate. Upton Parkinson would have nothing but the best for his little girl—the best things, the best education, and, most importantly, the best man.

Draco saw him and his wife approaching, but it was too late to duck away.

Upton was a round sort of man, with rouge in his cheeks and at the tip of his nose. An outsider looking in might see him as jolly; he was often bellowing with laughter or treating the sinister group to one joke or another. But underneath the cheerful façade was a very powerful man. Like Draco's own father, he had been among the first men to be marked, way back in the days when there had only been one Circle to join. Over time, he'd become a pillar of the Eater community, and there was no telling how many corpses he'd climbed on—or created—along the way.

"A good show, that," Parkinson raved, elbowing Draco's arm. "It drew in quite the crowd."

"And what a pleasant surprise," Regina Parkinson put in, "to hear of your… _esteemed_ position as the Heir." Her voice was smooth and sly, so much like her daughter's.

"Indeed," Draco said stiffly.

"Very extravagant," Pansy's father went on. "Just how I would have liked to have had mine…" He looked down with a wistful smile, "had I had a _real _ceremony."

Like many other veterans, Upton Parkinson had been marked and joined in dark secrecy, probably with only one official witness.

"Will you be staying long with your family?" Regina asked Draco, her voice interested but her eyes bored.

"No. I go back to school later today."

"To school?" Upton asked, bewildered. "But, dear boy, this is holiday! It would be wrong not to honor that."

"I have business that supercedes the holiday," Draco replied with gritted patience.

Parkinson shared a look with his wife, and then laughed jovially. "Of course, of course. You wouldn't be Lucius Malfoy's son if you said otherwise." He nodded, sighed, the sound a gust of wind. "Go on, if you must. We won't hold your diligence against you." He winked. "And who knows—perhaps soon we'll have another ceremony to celebrate."

Draco followed the man's sparkling gaze to the place across the grass where Pansy stood. "Perhaps," he agreed quietly. There was no excitement in his voice, only cold, grim acceptance.

Pansy happened to look over then, and flashed a wicked smile his way. But she turned back to Narcissa before she could his jaw work.

* * *

Hermione wanted to pay attention to her morning classes. She wanted to think about school, about final exams, about Head Girl duties. She wanted to think about anything but _Draco_, about anything but where he was and what he was doing. What he was _becoming_.

Extreme worry plagued her, making her anxious, jittery. Was he safe? Would he be back soon?

Would he be back at all?

She was terrified that he wouldn't—even more terrified that he _would._ Everything had changed. Things _would_ be different now. She would have to find a way to forget the past few months, suppress them somehow. Because once he came back, he will have forgotten them, too.

Hermione couldn't bear the thought that he could go back to the silence, that he could revert to the cold, callous treatment of before, as if nothing had happened between them, as if their feelings had never changed. She couldn't bear the thought of having to pretend it didn't break her heart.

Harry noticed the somber unease inside of his friend—as well as Draco Malfoy's unexplained absence from the lesson. Was there a connection between the two?

He nudged Hermione. "Hey. Where's Malfoy at?" he asked her under his breath. His voice was nonchalant, but his eyes were intense.

Hermione only shrugged.

That wasn't answer enough for Harry. "Is he coming to class?" he pressed in a whisper.

Hermione ran an unsteady hand through her curls. "I don't know," she whispered, her eyes closing. "Possibly. Probably. Maybe." They opened again, snapped to Harry's. "How should I know?"

Harry's brows creased. "Alright," he said, placing a soothing hand on her back. "Relax."

Hermione took a deep breath in, then let it out with a shake of her head, her broken eyes staring down at the blank parchment that should have held her notes.

Harry looked across Hermione's seat, exchanging worried glances with Ron. This scene was terrifyingly familiar. The secret pain, the helpless eyes. Something wasn't right. The bright, happy Hermione that had finally managed to break free to the surface was somehow drowning again in the course of a single night. Here again was the broken girl, the one who never ate, who never spoke or smiled. This was the girl who hid herself away where no one could reach her, where no one could find her once she was lost.

Harry studied his friend, his teeth grinding, his eyes narrowing with worry and dread. What had happened after the dance last night? And where was Draco Malfoy today?

Ron looked to the front of the classroom, to where Snape was droning on and on, before turning back to Hermione. He didn't know how to cheer her, what to say to bring the smiles back. But desperation had returned to him just as suddenly as silence had returned to her.

"Brandon Madison asked after you this morning," he told her in a whisper, forcing himself to smile, trying to get her to do the same.

Harry rolled his eyes and kept the comforting hand on her back, somehow knowing that the hopeful words would hurt more than help. Ron didn't realize their friend didn't care for Brandon the way she may have once. He hadn't seen the way she'd been with Malfoy last night. He hadn't seen what Harry had seen: the endless possibilities in their tense embrace.

Just as Harry had predicted, Hermione's eyes went dull. "Did he?" she asked. She tried to smile, but the spreading of lips came out lopsided and thin.

Ron's own anxiety had him grabbing onto the shred of hope that tired smile presented. He continued on despite the little voice at the back of his head that told him not to push. "Yeah," he whispered. "You have him… smitten, I think."

"Brilliant," Hermione returned, a little self-condemningly.

There was a pause. "He told me he had a ball with you last night," Ron continued desperately. "And that he'd like to come around more often."

Harry sent him a death glare, warning him not to go on.

Ron narrowed his eyes. _We've seen this before. Nothing gets better unless we _make _it better._ He looked back to Hermione, determined to try. "I was hard on him at first, but—"

"Shut up, Ron," Harry whispered harshly. _Can't you see you're making it worse?_

It was Snape, of all people, who saved the day.

"Potter, Weasley—is there something you wanted to share with the class?"

Ron looked up at the hissing sound of the professor's voice. He crossed his arms. "No," he answered grudgingly.

A sneer formed on the professor's face. "Then you'll do us all a favor by keeping your flapping flytrap of a mouth _closed_," he snapped. "Ten points from Gryffindor for interrupting the class. You're lucky it's not detention," he added when Ron sighed out loud.

"Nicely done, you blockhead," Harry said as soon as class was dismissed.

Ron rolled his eyes. "We can earn the points back, mate," he defended with a scowl.

"Not that," Harry said back. He looked around, lowered his voice. "What did you have to go and bring up Madison for? You don't even like him!"

"What's your point?" Ron accused. "You saw the look on her face, Harry. I _know_ you remember it from before." He shook his head, threw his hands up helplessly. "I was just trying to find some way to cheer her up."

Harry's angry frown slowly eased. It was happening again—the tense arguing that always came between them when they were worried about something.

Worried about her…

"I know, mate," he said at last. "I just… I dunno..." He shook his head, shrugged, sighed.

He didn't finish. He didn't know how.

* * *

Lucius invited everyone inside for the reception, and the guests eventually made their way indoors. Though it was still daytime, the sparkling chandeliers were lit, and the tiny candle flames glowed brighter than the grey-covered sun.

The string orchestra began to play, filling the ballroom with the classical compositions of the Baroque and Romantic eras. The ladies had shed their formal robes to parade their expensive one-of-a-kind gowns. They were spread all across the room, some gracefully dancing the minuets and quadrilles with their husbands, some watching from the sidelines, making polite, restrained conversation behind their fans. The men who weren't dancing stood stiffly huddled together, speaking quietly, seriously—no doubt talking business. They glanced up cautiously every once in a while, aware of the Dark Lord's gaze watching them from the gallery above, where only the most powerful of the elite were conversing over brandy and cigars in an overlooking salon.

The newly pronounced Heir had been commanded to join them once he'd finished making the rounds below. But there were enough people in the crowded ballroom to prolong the inevitable for just a little longer.

After escaping what seemed like the hundredth well-wisher, Draco ducked out of the room and onto the veranda. The sound of violins echoed behind him, but his grey eyes watched the equally grey horizon that marked the property line beyond the garden in the distance.

The precious minutes of solitude only lasted a moment or two before someone came up beside him.

"Whiskey?" It was Blaise's voice that spoke over the singing sound of the strings. He extended an arm out to the side, offering a glass half-filled with liquid. "Take it, Malfoy," he commanded quietly when his friend didn't react. "You need it. And it would look out of character otherwise."

The words had Draco glancing darkly over his shoulder. The curious gazes that watched them immediately averted, retreating back behind fluttering fans and into glasses of champagne. He turned back, clenching his jaw, silently, wisely taking the glass.

"You took your time getting here," Blaise commented after a moment, watching as the blond man swallowed some of the liquor. "I was beginning to think you wouldn't show up."

Draco didn't say anything, didn't even take his eyes from that colorless place in the distance where the sky met the earth.

Blaise raised a brow. "How is your arm?" he asked. "They say the pain is worse than the Cruciatus."

"Funny, I didn't feel a thing."

Blaise watched his friend with narrowed eyes. And then he turned back out to the garden, sipping from his own drink. "The ceremony went well," he stated mildly after a while.

"It was over quick, at least." A breeze wisped through the garden. With bland eyes, Draco watched white bushels of hemlock sway.

"And you brought the blood," the darker man went on. He glanced to the side. "I wasn't sure you would."

"You know me better than that," Draco said quietly.

Blaise considered him a moment, nodded slowly. "I know you always do what you have to." He looked over his shoulder, assessing his surroundings for prying eyes and ears. His eyes were narrowed speculatively when he turned back. "Did he give you any hint at all as to why he wanted it?"

Draco said nothing, which was answer enough.

Blaise crossed his arms. "That isn't ideal. But it isn't unexpected." He watched his friend's jaw tighten and his silver eyes darken to smoke. "You did the right thing, Malfoy," he reassured him quietly.

"It was the lesser of two evils. That doesn't mean it was right." Draco shook his head bitterly and forced his fists to unclench. "But I can't think about that," he reminded himself. "What's done is done. It's too late to take back now." He swallowed down what was left of the whiskey in his glass "I'll have plenty of time for regret after I figure out what's next on his agenda." He looked to the side. "For me—and for her."

The words, the determination in them, had Blaise tensing. "I wouldn't dig too deep, Malfoy," he warned. "He's not like anyone you've ever dealt with before. There's a price for trying to unearth what he buries." He shook his head, his dark eyes earnest. "A price I'm sure he'd make _both_ of you pay."

Their eyes stayed connected, silent messages being sent and received—and resented. But neither looked away until somebody forced her way between them, breaking their gazes.

"_There_ you are." Pansy was suddenly latched onto Draco's sleeve. "Finally I catch you alone."

Blaise smiled. "It's nice to see you, too, Pansy," he stated dryly.

Pansy rolled her eyes, but otherwise ignored him. "What are you doing out here loitering in the shadows?" she chastised Draco. "You shouldn't be neglecting your guests."

"I needed some air," Draco said with practiced patience.

Pansy clucked her tongue. "There are a lot of important people here," she informed him. "You don't want to give them the wrong impression." Draco opened his mouth to tell her just how little she knew about what he wanted when the violins faded out and then back in. Pansy's fingers tightened excitedly around his arm. "Listen—" she said, halting his harsh words. "It's my favorite waltz." She waited, expecting an invitation. None came. "The _polite_ thing to do would be to ask me to dance."

Draco's silver eyes were cool. "I prefer not to dance. You know that."

Pansy's spine straightened primly. Her smile tightened and her chin rose half an inch. "You seemed to do just fine with the mudblood last night," she reminded him. "If you can make an exception for her, you can certainly make one for me."

Draco ground his teeth together. He wanted to refuse, wanted to send her off, expectations be damned. But the world couldn't know he wanted to make Hermione Granger his _only_ exception—so he dutifully led Pansy back into the ballroom and masterfully swept her into the current of swirling couples.

All eyes were on them, watching them, admiring the way they moved so fluidly and elegantly across the floor, dancing the waltz as if it had been made for them alone. No one looking in would have guessed that the perfect pair's beauty was only skin-deep. They would never know that behind the veneer of grace and seemingly natural chemistry, the two weren't really compatible at all.

"This must be a welcome change from that awkward dance you had with Granger," Pansy said in her prim, superior way. "Of course, that's to be expected. Not many people can move together the way we do. Especially not a girl as common as her." She smiled graciously over Draco's shoulder at a group of ladies who were watching them. "Sophistication comes from the blood as much as the breeding."

"How about we _not_ speak," Draco said tightly. "This is already unpleasant enough."

Pansy's chin rose, but she wouldn't be silenced. "Speaking of Granger, how _did _you manage to get the blood?" A small smile formed on her pink-painted lips. "Did you have to get rough with her? Take it by force?"

Draco smiled blandly over gritted teeth. "She all but handed it to me," he assured her, toneless—and secretly bitter.

Pansy let out an airy, affectionate laugh—one that the spectators were sure to misinterpret. "Well I'm sure you were very convincing," she stated mildly. "You must have made it impossible to refuse."

Draco's jaw worked. He said nothing—_could_ say nothing and keep his cool. Instead, he kept guiding her expertly around and around the floor.

"Smile, Draco," Pansy commanded through a pasted-on smile of her own. "Everyone is watching. Including the Dark Lord."

Draco resisted the urge to glance up to the gallery, where he knew the man in question was watching them like a deity from above. "I've never put on a show for anyone's benefit but my own," he said through his teeth. "I don't do anything for the sake of appearances—you know that." Pansy kept her smile in place, but he could see annoyance in her eyes. "I told you the Mark wouldn't change me, Pansy," he reminded her quietly. "I told you it wouldn't change _us_."

Pansy only smiled. "It's natural for you to feel a sense of loss," she told him with mock sympathy. "It's natural to want to cling to the past. But that's what it is, Draco—_all in the past_." She spoke to him softly, but knowingly, like a mother with a child. "You can't be the person you were. You can't do whatever you want. Starting today, it matters what you say and do. It matters who you offend." Her dark blue eyes were bright and simmering with satisfaction. "Things will be different now," she told him warmly.

Draco hated the familiar words. He hated that, like all the times before, they were true.

"Some things," he agreed darkly. "But not everything. I'll do what I have to. Nothing less—and nothing more." His eyes connected with hers. "You're more, Pansy," he told her meaningfully.

Pansy laughed again, as if it was the perfect joke. "This isn't like before, Draco. You can't do it halfway. You can't pick and choose which obligations to meet." She shook her head. "You're all in," she told him happily. "And I'm part of the package."

The violins held one last long note, marking the end of the waltz, and she lowered into the customary curtsy. "Welcome to your new life," she whispered, wearing that knowing smirk, sultrily looking up at him through her thick lashes.

Draco's jaw clenched at the baiting words. He bowed stiffly, as the dance required. But he didn't storm off the way he wanted to—the way he would have before. Instead, he waited for her to rise. Threading her arm through his, he dutifully escorted her off the floor—proving her right.

_Things will be different now…

* * *

_

The orchestra played a polonaise next, but he didn't ask any of the other preening young ladies to dance. Having fulfilled every possible expectation of the day, he now had every intention of making his exit. An abrupt departure would most certainly be ungracious—but it was completely in the notorious Draco Malfoy's character. No one would be surprised that the aloof and arrogant prince had been the first to leave his own reception. The Dark Mark may have been a brand, but it _wasn't_ a bridle, and he wanted to show everyone—including himself—that nothing and no one would stop him from coming and going at his own will.

Slow, deliberate strides carried him forward, through the ballroom and toward the entrance hall where his broom awaited. But he stopped short of the high-arched door when he felt a certain pair of intense eyes on his back. He turned, slowly raising his gaze to the gallery, where the commanding figure of the Dark Lord towered over the festivities, a black, ominous shadow against the surrounding marble and gold.

Voldemort watched his Heir with a dark, languid smile. And then, reaching out, he curled one skeletal finger, beckoning Draco to join him upstairs.

Finding patience, Draco began to move back across the ballroom—trying not to feel the tightening of the proverbial reins.

The salon above was adorned in red-velvet finery. The creamiest of the crème de la crème were scattered across the patterned carpet and over the regal sofas and chairs. The five or six men were among the most powerful in the Dark Lord's precious First Circle—and everything about them was a testament as to why. Some were stern and stoic like Lucius. Some smiled over their brandy and as they puffed on their cigars. But _all _of them exuded superiority, the kind that came from lifetimes of building empires and crushing enemies.

Their conversations died down as he appeared in the doorway, each man turning to assess him with interest in his eyes. But it was the daunting figure that stepped regally from the balustrade who spoke into the silence.

"Trying to abscond already, Draco?" the Dark Lord tisked. "You surprise me. The afternoon has barely even begun."

Draco kept his gaze unreadable and straight ahead. "I had planned to get back to school before my absence was noticed." He glanced to his father, who stood tight-jawed in the corner. "The last thing I need is to be rousing suspicion, especially now."

The Dark Lord's pale mouth twitched with amusement. "How sensible of you," he praised quietly. "How precautious. How just like your father—always covering his tracks." Hushed laughter from the other men faded in and out. "Well, I won't allow you to sneak off just yet," Voldemort told him. "We haven't gotten the chance to celebrate together." Vaguely, he waved one gaunt hand. "One of you fine men—pour my Heir a drink."

A silent moment passed. It was Upton Parkinson who came forward with a snifter of Lucius' finest brandy.

Draco looked at the glass, but didn't take it. "Come, Draco," Voldemort insisted amusedly. "A few more minutes will hardly make the difference."

Another moment, and then slowly, reluctantly, Draco took the glass.

The Dark Lord smiled. "I propose a toast," he said, raising his goblet. He waited as the seated men stood and silently raised their glasses. "To the illustrious Draco Malfoy and our beautiful, fruitful new friendship. May he—and it—bring much prosperity."

Quiet 'cheers' and 'hear, hears' echoed before everyone took a swallow of their drinks.

Draco slowly mirrored them, but as he drank, he kept his vigilant eyes on Voldemort over the rim of his glass.

"Gentlemen." The Dark Lord spoke to the others, but his bright black eyes stayed on Draco. "I think it's time you rejoined the festivities." The men shared knowing glances with one another and obediently began to make their way out. Only Lucius made no move to obey. "You, too, Lucius. Attend to your guests."

The silver-eyed soldier looked darkly between the two men. And then he slowly followed his comrades out of the salon.

"I hope you didn't send them off on my account," Draco said once he heard the door click closed behind him.

The Dark Lord waved a dismissive hand. "No matter. I'm glad to finally have an excuse to be rid of them." One corner of his mouth lifted dryly. "Like you, I tire of these functions easily. That is why I almost never attend."

He considered the younger man for a few silent moments—and Draco let him, not moving, not saying a word. "You did well today," he said after a while. "I was very impressed. The Morsmordre is a powerful spell—even the hardest of my warriors have at least flinched." He tilted his head. "_You_, however, didn't so much as blink an eye," he recalled. "I haven't seen anyone bear the pain so well—not since in your father's day." His dark, approving eyes turned reminiscent. "They just don't make them like they used to," he sighed.

"With a few exceptions."

The Dark Lord looked him up and down. He wore a skeptical smile. "Apparently," was all he said.

They watched each other for another few moments. "Drink that up," the Dark Lord said finally, nodding to the barely-touched glass in Draco's hand. He held out his own empty one. "And then pour us both another."

Draco slowly did as he was bade, expertly downing the remainder of his drink and then stepping forward, gaze guarded, to retrieve the snifter from his master. He took the glass he was offered, watching—and resenting—the quiet smirk that distended the man's pale and ugly mouth. He retreated to the side table where the bottles waited. Silently, he poured from Lucius' collection of luxury cognac, first into the Dark Lord's glass, and then into his own.

Slow steps brought him back to Voldemort's side. The towering master was once again standing at the balustrade, his pallid hands resting on its white marble surface as he watched the elegant men and women dance a musette below.

"Your brandy," Draco prompted quietly from beside him.

The older man accepted the glass with a small smile. He said no thank you, gave no grateful glance. He didn't take his black-orb eyes from the couples that slowly rotated on the ground below. "Look at them…" he said wistfully after a while. "The wizarding world's most influential people, all crammed together in a single room." His hairless head tilted to the side. "They look almost harmless from here, don't they," he asked his Heir. "More like gazelles than lions—chasséing around each other, prancing about, gliding along as if floating on air."

Draco watched the dancing pairs with dark silver eyes. "Every snake knows how to slither," he answered darkly.

The Dark Lord glanced amusedly to the side, but the look was fleeting, only lasting a moment or two before returning to the sea of aristocrats. "You should be very proud," he stated mildly. "They're raising their glasses and sipping their champagne in your honor."

"If it wasn't me it would be for some other excuse. They're here for themselves," Draco said tonelessly, "not for me. They'd be raising their glasses and sipping their champagne regardless."

The Dark Lord laughed under his breath. "True enough," he conceded. "Many of them certainly do love to rub shoulders—especially with the more reclusive of our community, who only come out of hiding for the most special of occasions." A thoughtful line appeared in the death-white skin above his eyes. "I see many of that sort here today, as well," he observed. He glanced at Draco. "This is a very special occasion, indeed. And that has absolutely _everything_ to do with you."

His Heir didn't reply, didn't turn to meet his bright black gaze; he only watched as the musette ended, and the couples took their sweeping curtsies and bows.

Voldemort turned back to them, watching as well. "I've always found this social dynamic fascinating," he declared after a while.

Draco's eyes narrowed. "What dynamic is that?"

"These men…" The Dark Lord gestured vaguely, like a God, to the mortals below. "They're rulers of kingdoms of their very own—powerful and imposing in their own right." He shook his head. "But here, all they're superiority melts away. They're cautious. They try desperately to blend in." An arrogant smile cracked the corner of his mouth. "They know as long as _we_ are here, they're not in their usual place at the top of the food chain." He aloofly swirled the brandy in his glass. "See there—" He nodded to a group of men who were secretly watching the two commanding figures above out of the corners of their eyes. "They're afraid of us," he observed. "They keep their gazes averted until they think it's safe, only glancing this way when they think we aren't looking." He glanced to the side, narrowly considering the profile of his Heir. "I'm always looking, though, Draco," he informed him seriously. "I'm always watching."

Draco kept his eyes on the partygoers, but he could feel Voldemort's gaze. "As am I," he dared to say.

The quiet boldness had the Dark Lord's face breaking back into an easy smile. "Yes," he agreed. "Lucius taught you well. You already know so much. Still, you have a lot to learn." He tilted his head as his protégé slowly turned to face him. "You will. I'll teach you." He smiled a secret smile. "One way or another."

Draco kept his silver eyes inscrutable. He didn't answer, not even as another loaded silence fell.

The Dark Lord watched him intently for a few moments. And then he broke their gazes, beginning to stroll about the room, his heavy black robes sweeping elegantly behind him. "I appreciate you completing your Task in such a timely manner," he continued conversationally. He glanced over his shoulder. "I especially appreciate your unique way of approaching it."

Draco's blond brows drew together. "I didn't realize it was unique." He crossed his arms. "Did I do something unexpected?"

The Dark Lord continued around the room, running a hand along the frame of one antique sofa as he went. "Well I haven't heard or read anything about murders or missing girls from Hogwarts," he stated casually. "Which leads me to believe that Hermione Granger is still alive and kicking."

Draco was still. "She's alive, anyway," he said quietly.

The Dark Lord's gaze seemed to sharpen. "It wouldn't occur to many men I know to leave her that way. It was very… evolved of you," he stated mildly.

"Evolved." The word was a compliment, but the tone was faintly condescending. It had Draco wondering if he was being patronized or praised. "The Task was to get a few ounces of blood," he spoke carefully. "Murder seemed like overkill."

"No pun intended," Voldemort replied, entertained. Draco didn't answer, only waited. The Dark Lord smiled placidly, once again resuming his aimless ambling about the room. "Typically, I wouldn't care one way or the other," he informed his Heir matter-of-factly, "but in this instance you did entirely the right thing. Killing Potter's little pet would have made a mess of things—the kind I'm afraid not even I could clean up. No, it's much better that you thought to do it the way you did. Much wiser," he assured the younger man.

Draco slowly raised his glass to his lips. "I'm glad my methods meet with your approval," he said just before he took one long sip.

The Dark Lord took a few moments to do the same, his mouth curved into a small smile as he drank. "I understand the girl is quite the force to be reckoned with," he went on after while, bringing the snifter back down, coolly beginning to swirl it once again. "Did she make it as difficult for you as I imagine she did?"

Draco smiled humorlessly. "You have the blood. I'm sure that's all that matters." And then his eyes narrowed skeptically. "You never told me what it was for," he said after one silent moment had passed.

"No I didn't," the skeletal man replied easily. "That is for me to know."

"And for me to find out?"

"Eventually," Voldemort laughed, entertained by the curiosity. "Suffice it to say that that little vial you so diligently filled is going to make winning my war a lot more cut-and-dried." He waved one thin, dismissive hand. "But you needn't worry your little head about that today. Business is closed for the evening. This is supposed to be a party—which, from what I understand, is supposed to be your forte."

Draco shook his head, hiding his impatience and dismay safely behind a wall of stone. "I wish I could. But I should get going. The authorities at Hogwarts will be getting curious. They'll start to wonder where I am."

"Well we wouldn't want that," the Dark Lord replied amusedly, his voice smooth and low, his eyes bright as they watched his Heir. He shook his head with dark affection. "Go on, then," he relented. "Be on your way. Lucius will say your thank-yous and bid your farewells."

Draco nodded once. Lifting his glass, he threw back what was left of the liquid before placing the empty thing on a nearby table. Slowly, he crossed the room and opened the heavy door. But Voldemort's velvety voice had him halting under the doorframe.

"And Draco…"

He turned back, waited.

The Dark Lord's smile was thin and satisfied. "I'll be checking in," he promised quietly.

Draco's brows furrowed slightly. He nodded once in understanding and then quietly closed the door behind him.

* * *

Ron and Harry didn't see Hermione again until lunch. Both had counted on the hope that what they'd seen in Potions had been the product of a passing mood or residual exhaustion from the eventful night before. They had prayed that when they found her at the Gryffindor table, she would be back to the way she'd been yesterday, smiling and bright.

Their concern, however, was only heightened when they realized that Hermione had no intention of eating the food they'd piled onto her plate.

"What's the matter, Mione?" Ron asked her. For the first time in his life, his own plate was untouched, his appetite lost to his deeper emotions.

Hermione sat very still in her seat. "I don't feel well," she whispered.

It wasn't a lie. She felt sicker than she ever remembered feeling before.

"Why don't you eat something?" Ron asked, forcing his lips up into a gentle smile. "That always makes me feel better."

"I'm not hungry," she answered mutely, releasing her hold on the fork, letting it fall onto the uneaten plate.

Both boys heard the familiar words echo as if from within a bottomless well. She _needed _to eat. What could be worse than watching her whither away again? What could be worse than not being able to stop her?

"Eat a few bites, at least," Harry urged. "Just try," he insisted when she only stared warily at her plate.

Looking from the green gaze behind his glasses to Ron's dark blue one, Hermione sighed. And then she slowly, carefully did as they asked, dutifully picking up the fork once again—missing the cautious, relieved look that her friends shared behind her back.

The food tasted bland in her mouth, and she had to force it down with a dry swallow. She wondered briefly if this familiar lack of feeling would be permanent. Would the dreaded numbness shield her, as it had all those years ago? Or would she still be able to feel the pain when she looked into Draco's eyes?

"Hey Mione," a familiar voice interrupted her thoughts.

She somehow found the willpower to look over her shoulder. Her tired eyes slowly found the tall form of Brandon Madison.

Hermione felt vaguely annoyed with the sound of her nickname on his lips, and if she hadn't been so exhausted, she might have asked him not to use it. The pet name had always been reserved for only a select group of her most intimate friends. Brandon did not—_could never_—measure up. Not now that she knew what true intimacy felt like.

"Hey," she said.

"Hey," he said again, warming, putting on his easy charm.

Hermione didn't answer, only waited, watching him with that tepid smile.

Brandon shifted uncomfortably. He'd never had a problem talking to women. He'd never been at a loss for words. He'd never been unsure—not of anything, but especially not of himself.

Not until Hermione Granger.

She was different than the other girls—he'd known that since years before, when they'd first gotten to know each other while working as Prefects. She had a sort of dark, almost numinous beauty, as if she was an ethereal being from some time or place. That hidden look in her soft brown eyes had him sure that she knew things about the world, things that no one else did.

When he spoke to her, she never reacted the way most other chits did. There were no flirtatious smiles or giddy giggles, no coy battings of her lashes or playful swats against his arm. She was far more guarded with her thoughts and feelings, quiet and cautious, like an oyster beneath the sea—if you wanted the pearl within, you had to wait ever so patiently, had to coax her ever so gently to open up and let you in. And though her careful armor sometimes seemed impenetrable, he knew he had to keep trying. He would take his time, would peel her back layer by layer, until she was accustomed to him, until she _trusted _him—until she let him be a part of her life.

"Just wanted to come over and say hello," he told her with a happy shrug. "And… maybe ask if I could walk you to your next class," he added hopefully.

Hermione's weary eyes looked somewhere beyond him, to the empty place at the Slytherin table where Draco usually sat. "I actually have my next period free," she told him—or, rather, the wide expanse of table behind him.

"Where are you headed? The library?"

Hermione shook her head, her eyes absently staring at that one place, as if watching it without blinking would suddenly make Draco appear. "My dormitory. To rest," she said softly. Her eyes lifted, focused, reconnected with his.

Concern washed over Brandon's handsome features. "You're not feeling sick, are you?" he asked with a frown.

Hermione dutifully shook her head. "Just worn out."

The worry ebbed. "From last night," he guessed with a rueful smile.

The irony made Hermione ache. "Yes," she agreed quietly. "From last night." She looked away. She didn't add that it was _Draco_ and not Brandon that had filled her night with joy—and, inevitably, sorrow. She didn't tell Brandon that it was _Draco_ and not him that she wanted, _Draco_ that she loved.

"I could escort you up if you like," Brandon offered with a winning smile. "I don't mind the hike."

Hermione looked to Harry and Ron, silently begging for help. The boys, who'd become experts at reading their friend, immediately caught on and came to her rescue. "Actually, I needed to talk to you, Hermione," Harry interjected. "I'll walk you up. You don't mind, do you Madison…?"

Brandon shrugged with that easy smile. "No worries. Rain check, Hermione?"

"Sure," she said. The reluctance in her voice was masked by weariness.

"I won't forget," he warned, his voice playful, but also sincere.

Hermione nodded again, put on a smile, but secretly she wished that he _would _forget.

She stood, and Harry followed. "We'll catch you later, alright?" he asked Ron.

Ron shrugged. He looked to Hermione, his eyes serious. "Feel better, Mione," he commanded gently.

She smiled, leaned down and kissed his forehead. "I will," she promised, but she knew it wouldn't be that simple. Inside, she wasn't at all sure she'd feel better ever again.

Together, the two friends walked out of the Great Hall and down the corridor, out of the line of sight of the two pairs of eyes that watched their backs. "Thanks for that, Harry," Hermione said once they had made their escape. "I know I probably seemed ungracious. I'm just too tired for pleasantries right now."

Harry held up a hand. "You don't have to explain," he told her, though he badly wished she would. He sighed. "All I need to know is that you're okay." He tilted his head to the side, and his gaze narrowed speculatively. "_Are_ you okay?" he asked her seriously.

Hermione looked into his searching emerald eyes, wondering if she should lie. She swallowed. Wouldn't he be able to see through her to the truth?

A moment passed.

"No," she admitted quietly. "I don't think I am." She looked down guiltily at her hands. "But I… I can't talk about it. I can't tell you…"

More secrets? More hidden reasons? More answers buried deep out of sight? A frown creased Harry's brows. He was tired of wondering, tired of not understanding why. What was it that had drained the spark from her eyes all those years ago? And what secret burden was sapping the light and life from her now?

It bothered him that he didn't know, that Ron didn't know. And it killed him because that little voice inside his head kept telling him that Malfoy _did_.

"I want to, you know," he heard Hermione whisper.

His gaze narrowed. "Want to what?"

Hermione looked back up into his emerald eyes. "Tell you," she answered seriously. "Everything."

Harry nodded. That was something, at least. But… why couldn't she? What was holding her back? _Who_? He had to bite his tongue to keep himself from asking. He recognized that faraway look in her dark brown eyes. It wouldn't be good to push her, not now, not as long as she was still fragile. He didn't know what was happening. He didn't know what had suddenly drawn her back into this vulnerable state. But he knew that the last thing she needed was one more reason to run away.

It would have to wait, he decided. _He _would have to wait. She would confide in him soon. She wanted to tell him, had said so herself. And so she would—as soon as she was ready.

"When the time is right," he forced himself to say. He rubbed her arm comfortingly, but his gentle smile was halfhearted and his eyes said that he wouldn't let that time be too far away. "I'll be here," he promised quietly.

Hermione nodded, but didn't reply. Silently, slowly, she turned around, and, with one final glance over her shoulder, headed up the stairs.

Harry watched her until she disappeared from sight. There was more she was hiding, more she couldn't tell him. Could it have anything to do with the Slytherin Prince's mysterious absence from class today…?

That feeling that Malfoy knew what was happening with Hermione suddenly sparked a new and unwanted thought…

Was there a chance that _Hermione _knew what was happening with _Malfoy_?

Harry's mind was suddenly spinning like a tornado, sucking every ray of sun into dark destruction once again. Was Hermione holding back information about Malfoy? Was she _protecting _Malfoy—a man who they knew to be cruel and unapologetic? A man they knew may very well be _dangerous_? Was she keeping Malfoy's secrets—and, by association, Voldemort's? Could she really betray him and Ron in favor of their enemy? Could she betray the thousands of lives that depended on them?

Harry began to storm back down the stairs, but his mind was churning with every step. Had Malfoy threatened her? Blackmailed her? Had he held the fact that he'd saved her life over her head, used it as a way to get her under his thumb? That was the only reason she'd ever betray them… wasn't it?

Involuntarily, he remembered the previous night. He remembered the way the two had looked as they'd danced, the way their tense gazes had watched each other, the way their hands had rigidly held, carefully—and _barely_—controlled. Could it be that Hermione had really fallen for Draco Malfoy's act, the same one he'd used to coax the knickers off of all the other chits? Was she really so entranced, so _seduced _by him? Did he have her wrapped around his finger, the way he did with the other girls…

Was it just a schoolgirl's crush? Or was it more? Could it be that Hermione _loved _Draco Malfoy— knowing he didn't love her, knowing he'd only leave her, only hurt her in the end.

The thoughts turned haunting, and Harry shut his eyes tight.

Could it be that her blind and foolish love for Malfoy outweighed her love for Ginny and Ron… and for him?

* * *

Hermione walked out onto the balcony, taking in the grey scenery. The air had grown crisper, colder, and she thought briefly that the snow would fall soon. Winter was coming weeks too early. Hadn't it been only yesterday that the world had been summer-warm?

She walked to the parapet, bent over it, looking down to where autumn wind had waves crashing against the base of the cliffs. She remembered pushing away from the platform, walking onto the air, letting herself freefall to whatever abyss lay below.

She had thought it would all be over after that. She had thought there would be peace. How wrong she had been…

Draco Malfoy had saved her that night. And from one sunrise to the next, he had been the defining reason she'd stayed alive. Would that change now that he'd gone away? Would she start dying again? She'd become so dependent on him, his strong arms, his intense eyes. She couldn't remember how to live without him.

She brought her hand up, clasped the diamond at her throat. The life Draco had given back to her had been ripped apart: by Lucius Malfoy, by Lord Voldemort—by Fate. It was over now with devastating finality, would be over the minute she saw him again, knowing what lay hidden beneath his sleeve.

Knowing what lay hidden within him.

"You should put on a sweater. It's getting colder." His voice was low, melodic. She hadn't even heard him open the door.

"Yes," she agreed, though she made no move to seek out the warmth of indoors. She didn't turn, didn't even move. She couldn't face him, not yet. Instead, her brown eyes stayed glued on the shores of the loch, her mind remembering when they had sat there together, when he had held her in his arms like he would never let her go.

Only he _had_ let her go. And now it was her turn.

"Why won't you look at me?" he asked her, his brisk voice chilling her faster than the air. "Aren't you curious? Don't you want to see what I've become?"

There was silence. With a deep breath, she turned to face him. Her eyes slowly, desperately ran over his familiar form. "You look the same," she told him sadly.

He laughed once, a rush of air that was harsh and cold. "Looks can be deceiving," he told her bitterly.

Hermione looked away. "Yes. They can," she said, but she was thinking of her own facades, her own deceptions. She turned back, saw his jaw had clenched at the words. She stepped forward, longing to chase the darkness away. Shakily, she reached out a hand to touch his face, but it halted in midair, unsure. Not knowing what to do, she drew it back again. Touching him would only make things worse.

Her gaze slowly fell, looking sorrowfully down at his left forearm, where, hidden beneath the satin sleeve, she knew darkness seared his skin.

"Did it… hurt?" Her voice was a broken whisper now.

He didn't answer, just came forward, stepping past her to the stone parapet. She watched his back as he looked out at the lagoon; nodded, swallowed, holding the tears at bay. Sad smile spreading, she slowly backed away. With one last longing glance, she turned.

Draco waited for the sound of the door clicking shut, clenched his jaw tight when it finally came. "Not as much as this," he said when he was sure she was gone, his voice a whisper against the wind.


	14. I Can't Stay Away

_Saving You Summary—DMHG. Hermione Granger has a secret, one that's literally killing her: she has been suffering extreme abuse at the hands of her father. Who will come to her rescue? What if the only one who can is Draco Malfoy? Rated M for sexual content (including rape), suicide ideation, and violence._

_Disclaimer—Most of the characters and a lot of the setting belong to J.K. Rowling. The rest is mine._

A/N: Last updated Jun. 27, 2010.

* * *

**:::I Can't Stay Away:::**

An unspoken understanding passed between them after their brief encounter on the balcony, one that told each of them to keep their distance. As a result, Hermione didn't see much of Draco in the coming weeks. She spent as much time as possible outside of their dormitory so that she wouldn't have to face him—hoping that separation would lessen the pain that wasn't numbing, wasn't fading away.

It only succeeded in making it worse. Every time she _did _see him was like a smack across the face, a knife in the heart—stabbing quick, lasting long. She couldn't bear passing him in the corridors or seeing him from a distance, knowing that he was going on with his life. She wondered if he missed her, if he even noticed her, _remembered_ her. He seemed to be moving forward without a backward glance.

Was it because he didn't care? Or did he ache as much as she did? She supposed she would never know.

Every night, she dreaded going to sleep. She would stare at her bed with weary eyes, exhaustion overwhelming her. But how could she rest when he wasn't there? How could she sleep without him next to her, holding her close, making her safe? His masculine scent still haunted her sheets, bringing tears to her eyes every time she pulled them over her body. No matter how tired she felt or how long she closed her eyes, she couldn't slip completely into unconsciousness. How could she, when she was more than conscious of the empty space beside her in the bed?

Harry and Ron's worry had intensified with her lack or animation. Her appetite was decreasing; she was talking less and less—smiling almost never. And all of it was happening in painfully slow increments—painful because no matter how slow the changes were, the boys seemed as helpless as ever to stop them. History was beginning to repeat itself, and they didn't know what to do, didn't know how to make it better.

"Have you seen the Daily Prophet?" Ginny asked early on Saturday morning.

Solemn heads bobbed in silent confirmation.

Virgil Haley, veteran Auror and long-glorified leader in the search for Lord Voldemort, had gone missing like so many of his dark-battling brethren. It was big news, so much bigger than the stories in the newspapers that they'd been poring over these past weeks. But it was hard for either Harry or Ron to care very much about it. The war looming over their heads seemed like nothing but a rainstorm in the back of their minds compared to the silent battle they were currently waging with Hermione.

"You were right. There's no doubt about it now," Ginny went on, looking from her brother, to Harry, to Hermione. "You-Know-Who is behind it all. It's just gone on too long and been too much to be coincidence."

Harry sighed, his eyes on Hermione. "You haven't eaten anything, Mione," he told her quietly. She had lost some weight, he realized with frightened eyes. Five pounds, maybe six—a small amount to some. But on a girl Hermione's size—and with her history—it was absolutely terrifying. "You haven't even touched your food. And you barely ate anything last night at dinner." Hermione's brown eyes were glazed over. She was looking at her plate as if it were some distant place; Harry wasn't sure she really _saw _it. "Hermione?" he pressed.

"I'm not hungry," she told him automatically, the words a whisper, soft and robotic.

"Eat anyway," Ron commanded, his voice rough and threatening, as if warning her that he'd force it down her throat if he had to. Anything to prevent the past from becoming the present…

Hermione shook her head. "I'll only be sick afterward," she informed him sadly.

"We should take you to the infirmary, then," he argued gently. "I'm sure Pomfrey will know how to make it better."

Hermione only shook her head again. This wasn't something Madam Pomfrey could fix with her healing potions and her alleviating spells. This sickness ran deeper than upset stomachs and broken bones.

"Really, Mione, just a few bites. You look white as a ghost." It was Ginny's tender voice speaking now, Harry realized. Had things gotten so bad that even _she _was on their side?

Hermione shook her head one final time and pushed the tray away. "I'm sorry," she told them without emotion. "I can't. Not right now." And then she was standing and walking away.

"Hermione!" Ron called after her, but she didn't turn back.

Harry's wary gaze watched as she disappeared behind the door, before turning to the Slytherin table. He hadn't failed to notice that she'd been spending next to no time in her own dormitory. And though she tried to hide it, he could see the pain in her eyes every time Malfoy was nearby.

Had he insulted her? Rejected her? Grown tired of her, bored of her, as he always did with his women?

Something was telling Harry that the reason was far more convoluted than that. Because while Hermione had obviously been doing her best to stay away, it appeared that the _Slytherin Prince_ was attempting the opposite. Wherever Hermione was, _he_ always seemed be, always somewhere on the outskirts or in the background, hidden in shadow, almost completely out of sight. Was it just a coincidence? Or was he _watching_ Hermione?

"Maybe you should take Mione to Hogsmeade," Ginny suggested to the boys, pushing her scrambled eggs around on her plate. "The fresh air might do her some good."

"She won't want to go," Ron informed his sister, his voice and eyes looking hopeless.

Ginny rolled her eyes. "Then _drag_ her there, Ronald," she insisted. "You've never had a problem with imposing your will on her before."

Harry and Ron smiled humorlessly at that. They exchanged shrugs. "We haven't been there in a while," Ron reasoned quietly.

No, they hadn't, not in _ages_. The stressors of school, the disheartening newspaper articles, the visions, and Hermione's ruined recovery had kept them too busy to spend lavish weekend trips to the village. They hadn't had time to spare. They still didn't, really. But Hermione needed some time away from all the chaos, and so did they. An afternoon outing would be good for them all. Harry and Ron could take her out for a nice lunch; they could pet the animals at the pet shop, buy her some new books the way they always used to back in the old days. Maybe it would help her to forget her troubles for a while. Merlin knew Harry needed to forget his.

"We'll talk to her," Harry said evasively. His gaze flashed over to Malfoy, whose face he couldn't see. "She needs a break from this place."

He didn't add that _he_ did, as well.

* * *

The Slytherin table was virtually empty, leaving only Draco, Blaise Zabini, and a few nameless fledglings that were scattered along the benches.

Zabini's dark eyes watched him from his place across the table. "Have you read the newspaper?" he asked mildly, bringing his glass to his lips.

Draco stared at his food. "No," he answered tonelessly. "But think I have an idea of what it says." Virgil Haley's disappearance was this morning's breaking news—but, of course, the story had been broken to the Heir in his most recent covert meetings, long before it had been sent to the presses.

Blaise nodded. "It's a wakeup call. The Ministry will really be on its guard now, I'd imagine."

"I'd imagine," Draco echoed sardonically.

Silence followed. Though Draco's back was faced to the Gryffindor table, he could feel Hermione there. He could sense her, her energy, her aura—could feel it emanating around her, reaching out until it brushed his back with the subtle warmth of a dying flame.

He longed to look over his shoulder, but kept his neck firm.

"Do you have anything arranged for this afternoon? Blaise asked, looking at his fingernails with practiced superiority. "Planned anything fun?" Draco didn't answer, causing the darker boy to lift his scrutinizing gaze. "Or are you going to play puppy dog again today?"

Draco's eyes flashed. "I don't know what you mean."

"Come off it, Malfoy. You can pretend for everyone else, but don't think _I _don't know." Blaise shook his head and took another sip from his cup. "I see the way you've been following her around. You haven't exactly been all that subtle."

Draco's gaze narrowed, but he said nothing.

Blaise sighed. "She isn't looking so good these days, is she?" he asked casually after a long, silent moment. His dark eyes looked beyond Draco to the Gryffindor table. "Getting skinny again. And quiet."

The words had Draco's teeth grinding together. It was true. And it was killing him that all he could do was watch from afar as the warmth in her eyes slowly dimmed and her subtle curves straightened out inch by inch.

"You must have really twisted her into knots," Blaise observed almost sadly, watching the Gryffindor clan across the room. "She's totally spent."

The words had darkness tightening around Draco's heart like an iron fist, and he couldn't stop himself from glancing over his shoulder any longer. His eyes followed her, haunted, as she stood from her seat, as she refused to stop when Weasley called after her. He watched her back until she disappeared from the room before turning his eyes back to the table she'd left behind. His jaw clenched with anger and worry when he saw the food still piled untouched on her plate.

"Potter and Weasley are getting nervous. They'll bring her to Hogsmeade, I think," Blaise predicted with near-certainty. "Get her out for a while."

Draco turned back to his food. Again, he said nothing.

Blaise's eyes were colored with dark amusement as he watched his friend. "Which means we'll be taking our own trip there, I assume?"

Draco looked to the ceiling, shook his head. "I should take a step back," he answered finally, almost to himself. "I've been too obvious. It isn't safe."

Blaise's eyes turned to him, looking mild, knowing Draco wouldn't—couldn't—fight his obsession. "We'll be taking our own trip there—won't we?" he repeated dryly.

Draco dragged a heavy hand through his hair. And then, defeated, he nodded once. If Hermione was going, then so was he. The mark on his arm could keep them apart, but it would have to allow for that much.

* * *

Hermione sat on the sofa in her common room, staring into the ashen hearth across the way. She was feeling tired, like all the energy had somehow been drained from within her, leaving nothing but an empty body, bare and blank and incomplete. She had thought that things would get easier over the weeks, but it seemed like that would never be the case. She was slowly numbing out again, but pricks of pain penetrated through the armor every time she saw _him_, every time she heard his voice echo down the corridor. His presence was palpable, so familiar, so strong that she could feel it even when he was rooms away.

It had been hard ignoring him. Every time she saw the flash of silver eyes, it was hard to turn away. There were moments when she was sitting with her friends, or walking down the hallways, or working in class, where she could have sworn she felt those intense eyes on her, watching her—but when she turned around to find them, they were never there.

_He_ was never there.

Was it so easy for him to ignore her, then? Was it so easy for him to move on? It pained her—but also relieved her—to think so. Maybe the whole thing had been a dream. Maybe those short months with him had never happened. As she looked down at her hands, thinning and white, it seemed possible.

Hermione's head snapped up when she heard the Domek portrait shut with a click. "Oh. It's you," she said, heaving a sigh of relief when her two best friends made their way into the room.

"It's us," Harry agreed.

"What's up?" Hermione asked quietly, trying to give them a smile.

"We're going to Hogsmeade," Ron informed her. She could tell he was trying to hide the concern from his eyes. He'd always been so easy to read. He was the kind of man who wore his every emotion on his sleeve.

"That should be fun," Hermione told them. "Have a good time."

Harry smiled. "Oh, no, Hermione," he said with a shake of his head. "_We're _going to Hogsmeade—as in the three of us," he stated matter-of-factly.

Hermione's soft smile slowly thinned. "I... I'm not feeling very well, Harry," she tried to tell him. "I'd only be a bother—"

"No you wouldn't. You'd be you. We'll have a great time."

Hermione sighed. "I have homework," she tried again.

"Do it later," Ron insisted. "Come on, Mione. We haven't been out since the first month of school."

Hermione looked down, thinking. Draco probably wouldn't be there, she knew, which meant she could spend a whole day free of the anxiety. She wouldn't have to worry if she'd see him, or hear his voice. Her careful brown eyes could let their guard down for a few hours. And maybe that would reduce the burning pain of regret to a dull ache. Maybe she could reach something close to relaxation… at least for a little while.

"So what do you say?" Ron asked, his arms crossed. "Will you come willingly—or will we have to tie you up and drag you?"

Hermione nodded, a little reluctantly. "Just let me get my coat and mittens," she relented with a sigh.

A smiling look passed between the two boys as they watched her disappear under the archway and through the lion painting beyond. Both had thought it would be harder to convince her. Maybe this was a step in the right direction. Maybe today would finally be the beginning of something better.

* * *

The three headed out twenty minutes later, walking side by side—Hermione in the middle, guarded by her two friends. They moved through the freshly fallen snow, visiting all their old haunts: the Three Broomsticks for a taste of butterbeer; Zonko's for a quick laugh; Honeydukes for a bite of toffee; and Murmy's Pet Shop to pet the bunny rabbits and teach the parrots naughty words.

"You know, Mione, I've been thinking," Harry said matter-of-factly as they made their way out of Murmy's.

Hermione couldn't help the half-smile that quirked her lips. "That's always where the trouble starts," she quietly replied. It was her best effort at lightheartedness, but it just barely fell short.

"She's got you there, mate!" Ron laughed, grateful for the attempt.

Harry gave them both a mock scowl. "Well don't you want to know _what _I've been thinking?" he asked, his arms crossing.

"Not really," Ron interjected, and Hermione smiled. Really smiled. That smile had both Harry and Ron's hearts soaring. Bless Ginny for thinking of coming here, Harry thought.

"I was talking to Hermione, not you," he scoffed. He looked at Hermione. "I was thinking that I haven't seen you reading anything new in a while."

Hermione shrugged a tired shoulder. "The library has the same old stuff. And I haven't gotten around to buying anything." Really, she'd been spending her sleepless nights studying Hoffman's Journal, hoping to find something encouraging, searching in vain.

Harry smiled, stopping her in front of the Billyworth's Bookstore. "Well it's time you got around to it," he told her warmly. "My treat."

The two boys shared brief looks of satisfaction as the smile spread deeper across her face. "Really?" she asked, tugging on his sleeve. "A new book?"

"_Two _new books," Ron corrected, winking. "Can't let Harry look like the better friend, now can I?"

Hermione was hugging him in an instant, then moving into Harry's arms. _These_ men truly loved her. _These_ men would never hurt her, never leave her. And though she knew two new books weren't enough to fix her or change her, she was grateful that her two friends cared enough to try.

"Thank you," she said meaningfully, appreciative for so much more than the gifts.

Harry and Ron seemed to understand the deeper meaning. "Of course," Harry replied softly. "Now come on. Let's go in."

"Yeah, the sooner we're in, the sooner we're _out_," Ron added with a laugh. Knowing Hermione, it would be a lifetime before they could finally drag her out of the store again.

Hermione smiled softly, pulling away from Harry's arms. And then her smile was disappearing. Her brows furrowed suddenly, and she turned, her honey eyes searching the people in the distance. She could _feel_ them again—those intense silver eyes that she had fallen in love with. They were on her, watching her—she was sure of it this time. But as she scanned her surroundings she found that, like all the times before, it was just in her head. Just wishful thinking, because Draco wasn't there.

She turned back to her friends and pasted on a smile, trying to regain some semblance of composure. "Sorry," she said. "Let's go."

Harry smiled and nodded as she stepped into the store. But his lips fell back down once the door closed behind her, his eyes narrowing at something in the distance.

Ron raised a brow. "Are we going in?" he asked his friend with a frown, but the emerald-eyed boy wasn't listening. Ron followed his gaze, squinted, but didn't see anything. "What is it?" he asked, looking dubious.

Harry shook his head. "Nothing," he said deadly. "You go on. I'll be there in a minute."

Ron wanted to argue, sensing a storm brewing, but Hermione knocked on the window just then, waving them inside.

"Alright," Ron said, looking doubtfully at Harry. "See you in a minute."

Harry nodded. "Yeah, see you."

He was walking across the road as soon as the door closed. Brisk steps brought him to a narrow alley between the buildings across the way. A dark form was retreating further into the shadows, moving fast but trying to seem nonchalant.

The bastard thought he could make a quick escape. _Not happening._

"Malfoy!' Harry called loudly.

The figure stopped, sagging with annoyance before whipping around. "Potter," he greeted with a mockingly accommodating smile. "Is there something I can do for you?"

Harry stepped forward. A storm of protectiveness was raging inside of him. He wanted answers—and he wanted them now. "Yeah," he said back edgily. He crossed his arms. "You can tell me why you've been following Hermione."

Draco's smile immediately darkened. "Who says I'm following her?" His grey eyes were cold, his words like ice.

"I do," Harry bit off impatiently. "Don't play dumb, Malfoy. I've _seen_ you."

The other man didn't respond, but his gaze pierced into his enemy's, the threat there evident in the way the silver flashed.

It only fueled the fire building inside of Harry. "I don't know what's going on between you and her—but whatever it is had better end."

Draco smiled bitterly at the irony. It _had _ended. And the reminder of that fact had him sneering. "I'll do what I please," he snapped superiorly. "Besides, who are you to threaten me? Last time I checked, _I _am the reason your little friend is even alive." He raised an expectant brow. "Or maybe you'd forgotten."

_Draco _certainly hadn't.

"I remember," Harry spat. "But you can consider your work done. She doesn't need you anymore—so you can just stay the _hell_ away."

"I'm afraid that isn't an option. We _do _live together," he reminded the other man with sugar-sweet spite. "Anyway, this is a free world, Potter. I come and go wherever and whenever I please."

"No you don't, not if it's around her," Harry threw back, his jaw clenched. He took another step forward when the other man only raised a rebellious brow. "I know you've been watching her. Tell me—what is it you see?" He raised a challenging brow. "Does she seem happy to you? Healthy?" It was Draco's turn to tense. "She doesn't, does she?" Harry demanded. Emerald eyes burned into silver. "And something is telling me that you're the _reason_ for that, too."

Draco's jaw clenched. It was true. All of it was true. "You're way off base," he answered tightly.

"I don't think so," the other boy said. There was a heated pause. "I know you've touched her."

Draco felt his hands ball into fists. "Did _she_ tell you that?" he asked through his teeth.

"She didn't have to," was the biting response. Harry shook his head. "If you think for _one minute_ that I'll let you do to her what you do to the other chits, you're _dead wrong_. I will _unleash hell_ on you, Malfoy. I will put you down like the dog that you are."

Draco didn't respond with threats. He only watched the other man with a placid, unaffected smile.

Harry let out a sound of disgust at the sight of that snide smirk. "Just keep away from her, Malfoy," he advised, his voice threatening murder. "You stay out of our way and we'll stay out of yours."

Draco watched as Harry whipped around and stormed away. He waited until he sure he was alone to let the smile slip away and the haunting thoughts to return.

* * *

Pansy stood at the entrance of the Three Broomsticks, watching Harry and Draco's distant figures through slitted eyes.

The two were deep in the shadows across the way, almost blending into the dark. But the sight would have stuck out like a sore thumb to Pansy, even in the black of night. She couldn't hear the words they were exchanging, but she could feel the intensity. The air around them was thick with barley-controlled fury.

What were Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy fighting over this time? Pansy's simmering eyes briefly flickered over at the bookstore and then back again. There was only one thing she could of—and that _thing _was Hermione Granger.

She felt her hands clench into fists, felt her long French-manicured fingernails dig into her palms.

A rolling stone was supposed to gather no moss. But here Draco was, gathering something far worse—gathering _filth_, collecting dirt, letting himself get stuck in the mud.

And there lied in her real problem. He was _stuck_—not rolling, not moving on to the next one as usual. He was willingly letting himself get caught up in Hermione Granger—something he'd never done with any other woman before. The notorious debaucher she knew didn't _feel _for the women he shagged. They were merely dolls he played with, there only for his amusement—there only until he tired of them and tossed them aside.

But he _felt _for Granger. She was more than the passing fancy the other sluts were.

Pansy had always told herself that Draco Malfoy didn't return her feelings because he couldn't. She had told herself that he was incapable of that kind of true emotion. But it was becoming painstakingly evident that the cold-hearted prince _could _fall in love. He just… couldn't fall in love with _her_.

She felt more than saw someone step up beside her. "Didn't your parents teach you that it's not polite to stare?" asked a mild a voice. It was Blaise, of course. He was always in the background somewhere, watching from the sidelines.

"No, actually," Pansy replied, not taking her eyes off of Draco. "They taught me to _always_ stare, to see everything."

Blaise smiled at that. "A lesson I know you've taken to heart." It was what he'd been taught as well, though he'd learned to be less overt about it. Scrutiny led to discovery, and discovery led to knowledge—and knowledge meant always having the advantage. "So…" He tilted his head. "What have you observed?"

Pansy's lip curled, and she found that for the first time in her life, she was unable to speak. She swallowed, finding her voice. "_Her_," was all she said, all she needed to say.

Blaise shrugged, playing it off—wondering how much longer he would be able to do so before the others found out the truth. Before they realized that it was more than sex for Malfoy, that Granger was more than a passion, or even an addiction. Before they realized that this betrayal was rooted in the heart.

"She's not the first," he reminded Pansy. "I highly doubt she'll be the last." His dark eyes scanned over her. "This isn't new. I would have thought you'd be used to it by now."

Pansy crossed her arms, her eyes burning holes into Draco's distant form. "I've never been _insulted _before now," she spat. "To betray me with _her—_a _mudblood_. _Potter's _mudblood." She shook her head, the words leaving a bitter taste in her mouth. "It is… _base_."

"The best sex always is," Blaise said with crude smile.

Pansy's angry eyes flashed his way before settling back on the two men in the shadows. They watched as the conversation suddenly cut off and Potter turned on his heel, walking back across the street and into Billyworth's shop. Draco stayed a moment longer, his silver eyes looking ragged, before fading into the shadows and out of sight.

Pansy looked down. "The Dark Mark was supposed to fix this," she said, almost to herself. "He was supposed to finally start following orders." _He was supposed to be _mine_ now._

Blaise knew what she really meant. "I told you he wouldn't change," he reminded her. "So did he." He shrugged helplessly when she sent him a loathing glare. "You know his nature, Pansy," he told her. "He's never given you illusions or false promises. _You're_ the one who keeps trying to make something out of nothing. You expect too much."

"It's too much to expect that he be _faithful _to his _wife_?"

"You're not his wife yet," he reminded her dryly. "Even if you were, it wouldn't matter. Not even Hera, Queen of the Gods, could keep Zeus from shagging other chits." He sighed, his eyes turning wary as Hermione Granger emerged from the bookstore. "Even mortal ones," he said quietly, his dark gaze watching the girl.

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?" Pansy snapped.

"No," Blaise answered bluntly. He paused, his head tilting, his dark eyes turning quizzical. "Pansy… _you_ belong to _him_," he told her, "and not the other way around. You _do _know that, don't you?"

Pansy was silent. She watched with narrowed eyes as Hermione and her two little guard dogs headed their way, passing them by with wary glances. She didn't speak again until the three were little specks at the end of the road.

"Why does he want her?" she asked, her voice harsh, but her eyes vulnerable and confused.

Blaise wasn't sure. He forced himself to smile. "Because she's off limits," he told her simply. "And there's nothing Draco Malfoy loves more than doing what he shouldn't." He looked from the Gryffindors' disappearing forms to the Slytherin Princess at his side. "You'll just have to become reaccustomed to it," he said after a while.

"Reaccustomed to what?"

Blaise watched her frankly. "Looking the other way."

Pansy's eyes narrowed into slits, but it didn't scare the darker boy. He held his hands up helplessly and slowly backed away, once again leaving her by herself.

She watched him go, glad to be rid of him. He was wrong this time. Draco _did _belong to her—and soon the world would know.

_Hermione Granger_ would know. Pansy would make sure of it.

* * *

Hermione sat in the common room during her free period on Monday, holding one of the hardback books that her friends had bought for her the previous day.

_Amulet_ was the newest hit novel by bestselling author Alyssa Garrett, and, from what she could gather from the inside of the dust jacket, it was the kind of tale that promised an easy escape. "An everyday man's life is turned upside-down by an eccentric and beautiful witch named Soraya, who stuns him with the news that he's actually a wizard, and that the pendent he received in his grandmother's will years before is actually a volatile talisman that has the power to warp time. Together, they team up to prevent a dark sorcerer—Soraya's estranged father—from obtaining the amulet and using it for his evil purposes. And, of course, true love blossoms along the way…"

Reviews on the title page were full of accolades and praise. "Garrett delivers another thrilling ride, full of exciting twists and lovable characters," read one. "An action-packed adventure with a mixture of suspense and romance that will warm your heart," raved another. "You'll gasp, you'll sigh. You'll laugh, you'll cry—and you'll be praying for a sequel!" It seemed like just the kind of book Hermione needed to take her mind off of her troubles. Predictable surprises, formulaic fun… a guaranteed happy ending…

She tapped her fingers against the bright cover, knowing that _this _story was the one she should delve into. But her brown eyes were wary. Reluctantly, they moved to the other purchase she'd made, a thicker, darker-covered book that rested on the coffee table a few feet away.

_Snake Charmer: The Life and Work of Salazar Slytherin_ was written in fancy letters across the front, a silver snake wound around the words. Hermione didn't know what had possessed her to buy it. Harry and Ron had looked less than pleased with her choice, but had wisely decided to keep their mouths shut.

She looked at it now, debating, her fingers going around the metallic snake at her throat. Reaching out, she picked the book up, letting it take the novel's place on her lap. But just as she moved to open the thing, a throat cleared, breaking the silence. Her head snapped up…

And found Pansy Parkinson.

Hermione watched the beautiful girl warily. "How did you get in here?" she asked when she found her voice.

Pansy smiled her feline smile. "Silly girl," she chastised condescendingly. "Did you really think Draco wouldn't have told _me_ the password?" Hermione looked down, causing the other girl's smile to grow. She looked nonchalantly around the room. "Is he around, by chance?"

Hermione stood, holding the book protectively against her chest. "No," she answered quietly.

Pansy's gaze stopped its roaming and landed on her. "Perfect. Because I actually came to spend some quality time with you." Hermione stayed still as a statue as the Slytherin girl strode forward. "Don't think I haven't seen what's going on," she jeered with a menacing smile. "The pathetic way you've attached yourself to him, drooling over him like some kind of animal."

Hermione felt her shoulders sag. "I don't know what you're talking about," she replied wearily.

Pansy stepped even closer, the movement drenched in threat. "Deny it if you want," she replied. "I don't need to hear you say it to know its true. I've spent the past seven years learning all the signs." Her eyes intensified, but her smile stayed crisply in place. "You didn't honestly believe you were the first bitch to trespass on my territory, did you?" she asked, her low voice filled with mocking pity. "I hate to break it to you, darling, but a hundred girls have passed this way. But that's all it ever is and ever will be—_passing_." Her voice had the hiss and slither of a snake, and the threat of venom sounded behind the calm. "If you think you have any real hold on Draco, you are _sadly_ mistaken. At the end of the day, it's _me_ he needs, _me _he's dedicated to." She shook her head. "Girls come and girls go. But I'm the one that stays. _I'm _the one he always comes back to."

Hermione held the thick book tighter against her breasts. She knew it was true; she saw it every day in school, at lunch, in the corridors between classes. "This isn't necessary…" she tried to say.

"Oh, on the contrary. I think that this is _very _necessary," Pansy assured her harshly. "You don't want to cross me, mudblood. You have no idea what I'm capable of—but I _swear_ to you, you'll find out." She tilted her head, one sculpted brow raising as, again, Hermione looked away. "You don't believe me?"

Hermione didn't look back. "I believe you," she whispered.

Pansy crossed her arms haughtily. "Good," she commended coolly. "Then I won't be forced to prove it to you—the way I was with some of Draco's other whores. A few of them had to learn the hard way," she explained regretfully. "Like Greta Berg. She was trying to insert herself where she didn't belong—and she left me no choice but to intervene." Pansy shook her head, her dark hair swaying against her shoulders, her lips lifting into that bland and edgy smile. "She's still recovering from that suspicious bout of mercury poisoning," she informed Hermione. "And I'm sorry to say that she's not the only one. Amelia Gleeson still vomits on a daily basis. Hester Rosenthal's pretty face will be scarred forever by those bizarre lesions that inexplicably appeared." She raised one skeptical brow. "Do you need more examples? I happen to have a trove of them."

Hermione's dark gaze was weary as she slowly shook her head. "I believe you, Pansy," she said again.

"What I did to them is nothing to what I have the power to do," Pansy assured her nemesis, blue gaze narrowed. "I have tricks up my sleeve that I've been saving for someone truly deserving." There was a pause; slowly, she took one last step closer. "I'm giving you the courtesy of a warning, Granger," she said quietly. "Trust me when I say you don't want to make me regret it." Another pause. Pansy's eyes intensified, thinning into slits. "Do we understand each other?" she asked dangerously.

Hermione watched the beautiful woman with tired eyes. "Yes." The whispered word wasn't afraid. It was sad, accepting. She had always known how it really was, had always known that it was Pansy Draco belonged with—Pansy he belonged _to_.

The Slytherin Princess smiled with cold satisfaction. "Excellent," she said with sweet derision. She reached out, dared to pat Hermione's slender shoulder. "I'm glad we had this little chat, Granger."

Hermione watched as the other girl backed away, leaving the way she'd entered—with her nose in the air and a superior smile on her lips. She watched as the door behind the portrait closed, watched until silence and stillness had fallen again…

Her brown eyes were solemn, and the pounding of her heart was lethargic, methodic, like the slow and solemn beat of a drum. The truth was that she _didn't_ understand. Couldn't they see? Didn't they realize she had already said goodbye?

The other girl's icy words replayed in her head…

Someone _truly deserving_… I'm giving _you_ the courtesy of a warning…

Her brows furrowed. Pansy had always turned the other cheek to Draco's little liaisons—but she had always gotten her little revenges easily in the end. She had dealt with the other girls swiftly: with curses, with hexes, with poisons and potions; she'd always done it stealthily, without a word of warning, so that they didn't see it coming, so that they never knew what hit them.

So what exactly made this time different? What made it special? Out of all the women, why would Pansy confront _her_? Why would she come here to assert her dominance… if not because she perceived Hermione as a threat?

Could it be that the Slytherin Princess thought that she _was_ different from the girls in the past? That maybe she _did _have a hold on him? Could it be that Draco was having as much trouble letting go as she was? Could it be that he _did_ care, that it was hard for him, too?

The idea didn't soothe her. It only broke her heart more. It would have been better—easier—not to know. Because if she believed he had moved on, maybe she could have, too. But now there was question, doubt, making her long to run to him and beg him to come back and try to work everything out.

But she couldn't do that. And neither could he.

Hermione slowly lowered herself back to her seat and opened the heavy book in her hands. In the deafening silence, she began to read.

* * *

Brandon Madison kept to his word. He did not—_would _not—forget Hermione's offer of a rain check. Over the next few days, he had found every excuse to sit with her, grabbed at any reason to talk to her. He had all but inserted himself into her life—and into her crew, seemingly turning the Golden Trio into a quartet.

Hermione was always polite, always patient—but it was clear to the two men who knew her best that she wasn't interested. Concerned, they watched as she silently allowed the man into their group—passionless, emotionless—never leading him on, but never turning him away.

If Madison had had the power to raise her spirits, they would have embraced him with open arms. But they could see the way her lightless eyes warily watched him. She was going through the motions. And it only unsettled them more.

"What's the matter, Mione?" Ron asked her at the end of the week. He had found her sitting at her favorite table in the library, just staring off into space with an unhappy look. That damn Slytherin book was closed and sitting on the table's surface in front of her, and his mind was already jumping to the conclusion that reading it had upset her. He pulled out the chair beside her and sat, subtly pushing the dark book away from her. "Mione?" he asked again.

Hermione was still staring straight ahead. "It's Brandon. He asked me to be his…" She swallowed down an acidy taste. "Girlfriend," she finished quietly.

Ron's eyebrows shot up. "Really?" She nodded numbly. "Well, I can't say that I'm surprised. He's been pretty obvious about how he feels." When she said nothing, he watched her with cautious eyes. "I'm not exactly sorry to see him go, though," he went on carefully. "He's a good bloke, but he doesn't exactly _gel_."

Hermione looked to the side. "He isn't goinganywhere," she informed him dully.

Ron's eyebrows dropped low. "What do you mean?" he asked. "He still wants to hang around, even though you said no?"

Hermione looked at her hands. "He still wants to hang around because I didn't _say_ no." When Ron just looked at her, she sighed. "I said yes, Ron," she supplied tiredly.

His bright blue eyes widened. "What!" he asked, incredulous. The entire library looked their way.

"_Shhh!_" Madam Pince commanded with a disapproving glare.

The people around them were still staring, interested. Ron rolled his eyes. "What are you looking at?" he asked in a loud, heated whisper. "There's nothing to see here. Go back about your business." Everyone reluctantly turned their eyes back to their homework and books.

Ron looked back to his friend. "You said _yes_?" he repeated, whining in a whisper. "But, Mione, you don't even _like _the bloke."

"Of course I do," she whispered back, looking down at the table. "He's nice."

"Yeah. Really nice. Bordering on condescending nice." Ron shook his head when she made no defense or reply. Sighing, he took Hermione's hand in his. It wasn't warm the way it used to be, but cool and lifeless. "You might think I'm slow, Mione, but I know you. I know when you're not happy," he told her seriously.

"I'm fine," Hermione said, trying to smile.

"No, you're not," he shot back quietly. "You may be able to fool everyone else, Mione, but don't think you can fool me. You've been like my sister for seven years." Hermione sighed when Ron tightened his grip around her fingers. "I'll put up with Brandon if it's what you really want," he told her. "But Hermione—" He paused, waiting for her to meet his eyes. "I don't think it is."

The words were dead on. It had been a long time since she'd truly _talked_ with Ron. She'd almost forgotten how deep and perceptive he was when he wanted to be.

She felt the brotherly love emanating from him, and it warmed her heart—if only barely.

"I said yes," she repeated dully, and he nodded.

"Okay," he answered, and with a smile added, "I guess I should go warn Harry about the new addition to the family. He's going to be just _ecstatic_!" The words were sarcastic but lighthearted, and Hermione smiled. "I'll see you later, right?"

"Yeah." Hermione was grateful he hadn't pushed too hard. The truth was still so close to the surface that it probably wouldn't have taken much digging to unearth. The wound was only barely scabbed over—she was sure even the lightest of scratches could rip it open and make it bleed. And the last thing she wanted was for her friends to find out about her misguided love for Draco, her inability to let it go. She didn't want them to know that Brandon Madison was only a distraction, a vehicle to help her escape the feelings she couldn't quite shake…

She didn't want them to know that she was running into Brandon's arms to forget they way she'd felt in Draco's.

It appeared that her friends had picked up on her lack of conviction where the Ravenclaw boy was concerned anyway. But she was determined to keep forcing herself. She was determined to keep pretending. She couldn't look back—only forward. Forward and away from Draco Malfoy.

Hermione watched as Ron disappeared before gathering her own belongings. She headed for her dormitory, walking slowly, silently, lost in her own thoughts—completely unaware of the man that followed in the shadows behind.

She dropped her bag in the common room before whispering her password to the lion king and entering her bedchamber. She sat on her bed, tired for no other reason than that she was emotionally drained. The days seemed to be getting longer and longer, making them harder and harder to bear. She was learning now that time _didn't _heal all things. The emptiness inside of her was only spreading wider as the hours passed.

Lightly, she fingered the cool diamond at her throat. How could she wear it now? How could she ever move on with his chain around her neck, binding her to him, enslaving her forever? How could she ever be free with his snake at her breast, a symbol of his suffocating grip around her heart?

That heart was aching now as she reached around her neck and unhooked the clasp, freeing the chain from its desperate embrace. Slowly, she drew the necklace away, and her throat felt suddenly naked and unprotected. She held the thing carefully in one hand, staring at the diamond and the snake with dry and burning eyes.

"You told me you were only friends." Draco's voice was emotionless as it echoed in the silent room. "You told me that was all you'd ever be."

Hermione looked up. He was standing just inside the lion portrait, his back straight, his body tense. He hadn't spoken to her in weeks, and hearing his voice directed at her had pain stabbing into her heart. Seeing him there, so close, had her breath stopping in her chest. It prevented her from speaking, and her only answer was the weak shake of her head.

"Put it back," he commanded, his voice low. She didn't move, didn't even blink. "Damn it, Hermione, put the necklace back where it belongs."

Hermione looked back down at the jewel. She _couldn't_. No matter how bad she wanted to, she couldn't let herself be his.

She stood from the bed, cautiously walked to him. Hesitantly, she took his hand and gently pushed the necklace into it. Her broken eyes looked into his. "There," she whispered sadly, withdrawing her hand before it could burn. "It's back where it belongs."

Draco's teeth gritted dangerously and his eyes heated with fury. "This was a _gift_," he said, grabbing her hand, trying to force the jewel back into it.

"I'm giving it back," she replied quietly, pulling away.

Draco felt a rush of fear. Wasn't this his final hold on her? If she gave back the necklace, didn't it make the end real? He had thought she would keep it... and as long as she did, as long as she wore it, she would secretly belong to him.

Tears pressed at the back of Hermione's eyes. "You should go," she said, trying to stay composed. "Things are easier when we keep our distance."

Draco's eyes flashed. "Easier for whom?" he demanded.

She only shook her head. She didn't know the answer. She wasn't sure there even was one.

Draco's angry eyes looked away. "Fine. Whatever you say," he spat. His hand clenched painfully around the sparkling diamond. Unwanted hurt pooled inside of him. It was for the best. Wasn't it? _Wasn't it?_

His jaw clenching, he turned to leave. And then he paused. He breathed once, twice, waiting as if about to say something else, waiting for her to say something, waiting for her to stop him. But he said nothing, and neither did she, so teeth gritting together, head shaking, he continued on without a word.

Hermione watched him go with saddened eyes. Only after the door slammed shut behind him did she let her silent tears fall.

* * *

Draco stormed down the short corridor, pacing to one end, then whipping around and pacing to the other. The portraits of Randolph Delphi and Lady Barbara shared concerned glances, and the latter fiddled worriedly with one round-barreled ringlet that dangled from her powered wig. "Dear boy, don't stomp so," she tried to intervene, but he didn't pause, didn't even hear her worried words. The familiar diamond was heavy in his hand, heavier than it had ever been before, as if somehow it had absorbed the weight of the situation—matching the heaviness of his heart, which was pumping wildly, even as it was sinking within his chest like stone.

When the laps up and down the hallway had failed to calm the mad surge of racing blood, he turned into his own room, saying the password through gritted teeth, throwing the portrait open when it moved too slow. He crossed the threshold and slammed the door behind him—and then, just as violently, he stopped short.

"My lord."

Lord Voldemort's dark, daunting form sat regally on the edge of his bed, haloed in sunlight, his black-clad arms crossed, his black hood down, revealing a pale skeleton face and a thin snake-like smile.

"Hello Draco. Having a bad day?"

Draco had been all heat and momentum a moment ago. But the unexpected sight before him had him instantly still, instantly cool and cautious. He slowly turned, fully facing the man, expertly masking the hurt and the fury of minutes before, making himself as hard as granite.

"You were… already entertaining, I take it," the Dark Lord said, tongue-in-cheek. Draco's brows furrowed. "The bauble," Voldemort supplied, nodding to his clenched fist. "It gave you away."

Draco's fingers tightened around the diamond, it's sparkling edges digging into his palm. "I didn't know you were planning to drop by," he said carefully. "I would have made sure to clear my schedule if I had." Slowly, he moved to put the thing into his pocket, away from the Dark Lord's skeptical gaze.

But it was too late—the Master's curiosity was already piqued.

"Come, come, don't put it away," he scolded mildly. "I haven't had a proper look." He held out an expectant hand, his palm stiff and exactly parallel to the ceiling, waiting like a strict professor's to confiscate whatever his student was trying to conceal.

Draco forced himself to smile blandly. He came forward and, holding the precious jewel by its thick silver chain, let the necklace trickle down until it was a pool in Voldemort's waiting hand. He stepped back, watching as the Dark Lord raised it closer to his eyes for inspection. It gleamed from within his grasp, sparkling with the fire of late afternoon sun.

"You have excellent taste," the older man decided after a while. "Very extravagant. It obviously cost you a fortune." His mild black gaze peered up, surveying the younger man. "Didn't she like it?" he asked after a moment.

Draco's silver gaze sharpened. "Who?" he asked guardedly.

The Dark Lord's head tilted to the side. "Whomever you were planning to give it to."

Relief was like a river, but Draco iced it over before it could show. "I guess not," he answered coolly.

The Dark Lord's gaze returned to the jewel. "It's beautiful," he observed. "Far too beautiful for any common whore to deserve." He sent him a sardonic smile. "She must be one of your favorites." He turned his black eyes back to consider the diamond that sparkled in his palm. "Strange, though, for a woman to turn away something of this size and clarity," he said after a while. He laughed knowingly under his breath. "It must be the snake that she objects to."

The irony left Draco bitter. "Must be," he agreed with a humorless smile.

The Dark Lord's own mouth curved easily. "Oh well," he sighed dismissively, holding out the necklace for the younger man to take. "I suppose you can always pawn it off on Miss Parkinson. A woman in her position would never reject a gift like this one. And I'm sure she would appreciate everything about it."

"Everything except that it wasn't meant for her," Draco returned dryly. He accepted the diamond and pocketed it immediately, secretly relieved to have it out of the Dark Lord's grasp. "Pansy isn't the kind of girl to accept secondhand goods."

"She'll take what she can get when it comes to you," Voldemort somehow knew. His smile widened when Draco averted his dull gaze. "She's become quite the beautiful young lady," he went on casually. "Refined on the outside—artful underneath. The two of you are evenly matched." He nodded approvingly. "When are the nuptials to be?"

Draco's jaw clenched. "Nothing has been decided," he answered patiently.

The words—and the dead tone in which they were given—had the Dark Lord's head tilting amusedly to one side. "The date has not been decided or the marriage altogether?" he asked. The dark silence that followed drew the white corners of his mouth up. "Well," he laughed quietly, "you certainly do live up to your reputation."

Draco raised one blond brow. "And what reputation is that?"

"Why, the infamous, elusive Draco Malfoy, of course—untamable rogue and libertine." Voldemort's smile lengthened when the younger man's arched brows furrowed. "Don't look so surprised, Draco. You are quite the living legend."

Draco's smile was grim. "Don't believe everything you hear," he said blandly. "Legends have the tendency to be exaggerated."

"But a frightening few happen to be true…" The Dark Lord's eyes and smile were simmering. "I should know," he said quietly. "I am one of them, after all."

A silent moment passed, bright black eyes staring laughingly into dull grey ones. And then the intensity eased again, the dark amusement becoming light and casual once more.

"That necklace in your pocket is all the proof I need," he informed his Heir. "It tells me the tales aren't so far off."

Draco crossed his arms. "Tales?"

Voldemort clucked his tongue. "Come now, Draco, surely you've heard your own stories."

"I don't know that I have," the younger man answered quietly. "Please—do tell."

The skeleton man let out a breezy rasp of a laugh. "They say you're a drifter," he informed his Heir, his smooth, low voice coming out through a crack of a smile. "They say you're a renegade and a rake. They say you're dangerous, like a storm; that you have all the apathy of a tornado, rolling in and out at will, breezing through places and people without a care in the world for the damage you leave in your wake." He tilted his pale head. "Well…?"

Draco was still. "You're right," he said patiently. "They aren't _so_ far off."

The Dark Lord folded his long, white fingers together in his lap. They looked even paler against the black velvet of his robe. "They also say you're a master debaucher," he went on dryly. "That you deflower one innocent rose after next, sucking their nectar until they're dry and then casting them aside." He considered his Heir with amused, assessing eyes. "What makes it all the more intriguing is that you have a beautiful blossom already in your possession."

Draco's silver eyes were dour as they met the Dark Lord's smiling ones. "Maybe I'm not partial to pansies," he said.

The pun had Voldemort's smile growing in delight. "I had no idea you were so particular, Draco," he replied, tongue-in-cheek. "I was given to understand you appreciate all different kinds and quantities of flowers."

"I have no problem picking flowers," Draco informed him blandly. "It's planting them that's less appealing."

"Yes, once they're rooted in the ground you can't throw them away," the Dark Lord returned knowingly. "You have to keep them."

Draco's only answer was the imposing sound of his knuckles cracking as he pushed them into his fist with his other hand. Though the action came more out of habit than threat, it had the Dark Lord's pointed chin rising amusedly.

"Lucius and Upton are keen on a wedding," he went on after a moment. "They've been good to me over the years, Draco. Especially your father," he added pointedly. "If it's in my power to give them their way, I will." He watched Draco openly, his black gaze frank and entertained; laughed under his breath at the dead look on his Heir's face. "What is this persistent aversion to marriage?" he inquired amusedly. "It doesn't appear to me to be all that bad."

Draco shed his school robe, busied himself with hanging it up. "I don't like making promises I can't keep," he answered casually, forcing himself to appear nonchalant enough to present the Dark Lord with his back. "That's why I tend not to make any promises at all." He rolled the sleeves of his charcoal sweater up. "I can't vow to love Pansy for better or for worse." He looked over his shoulder. "I can't _love _her."

The Dark Lord's smile was smooth and suddenly intense. "Believe me, you're the better for it," he assured him quietly. "Love is the most crippling kind of magic there is. It makes a strong man weak. It turns a wise man into a fool." He shook his head. "It makes him soft. _Vulnerable_—It makes him do things he wouldn't ordinarily do and take chances he wouldn't ordinarily take." His gaze narrowed, his beady eyes shining like black pools in the moonlight. "That's what makes it so dangerous," he told his Heir seriously. "It's a virus. It's a _curse_."

"It's a hassle," Draco corrected, turning to face the Master with one brow raised. "And, as I'm sure the stories say, I prefer life _without_ strings or burdens."

Voldemort shook his pale head slowly, the amusement quieting, becoming solemn. "I've been alive for a very long time, Draco," he informed him. "And I've learned that every man is bound in one way or another—some by the expectations that other people have for them." He smiled self-condemningly. "Others by the expectations they have for themselves." A moment passed, ending in a silent sigh. "There isn't a living person on this earth who is _truly_ free."

Draco crossed his arms. "Not even the almighty Dark Lord?" he asked mildly.

"_Especially _not I," Voldemort replied. His dark eyes flashed, the wistful look heating, burning away like fire through ice. "And that's all I've ever wanted in the end, really," he said with a sizzling smile. "That's all my little crusade has ever been about." He shook his head. "A man with infinite power and eternal life has no limits. He is boundless, fetterless, fearless..." His lips curved slightly. "_Free_." His folded fingers seemed to tense, tightening like chain links as they gripped one another. "That's why immortality is so attractive, isn't it?" he asked reminiscently. "It releases a man—from pain. From harm. From that most binding of burdens, time." The words—the mere thoughts—had his wistful smile turning wolfish. "That is why I _have_ to have it," he rasped.

Draco's brows lowered, and a line appeared between them. "So why name an Heir?" he asked skeptically after a while. "Why need one if you'll never die?"

The Dark Lord chuckled under his breath, the sound as smooth as the wind against a black night sky. "The years have worn me down, Draco," he confessed with a halfhearted smile. "After so many thwarted and failed attempts, I'm beginning to accept that I may never be immortal." He held his hands up. "Not in a physical, literal capacity, at least. So, you see, it's purely a matter of self-preservation," he said matter-of-factly. "I want _eternal life_. I want your children's children's _children_ to be afraid to say my name." The pointed corners of his mouth lifted predatorily. "_You_ are the bridge between me and them," he explained with a smile. "As long as I have an Heir, a piece of me remains." He considered the younger man with satisfied eyes. "You are going to make sure that I live forever, Draco…" His smirk slowly grew. "Among other things."

_Among other things…_ Draco hated the way the ominous words rolled right off the other man's tongue and into the silence, so vague and still so full of meaning. They hung in the air, thick like a fog, powerful like a poison, one that seeped beyond his skin and into his soul. He didn't know what exactly Voldemort had in store, but he could feel the weight of it on his shoulders, could feel the darkness of it shrouding him like a shadow. He was heavy, weighed down by all the future orders he would have to obey, all the obligations he would have to fulfill…

And all the people he would have to hurt in the process.

He swallowed.

_There's always more, isn't there…. Why is it we don't have a choice…_

"Why did you come here?" he asked cautiously after a while. "Was there… something you needed to discuss?"

The Dark Lord rose from his place at the edge of the bed and began to glide superiorly around the room. "I just wanted to drop by and make sure everything was alright," he said nonchalantly. "I sent you a note," he added pointedly. "I was beginning to worry when I didn't receive a reply."

Draco was still. His grey eyes were guarded as they watched him examine the room. "I wrote," he explained. "But the school owls don't know how to find you."

The Dark Lord sent him a wry glance over his shoulder. "Yes, well, I am very skilled at playing hide-and-seek." He turned back to slide one pale fingertip over the smooth wood of the open fall front desk. "Even if I wasn't, those old barn owls hardly know east from west," he said dismissively. "I'm sure your own bird would have done a far better job."

"I don't have my own bird," Draco told him. "Not anymore."

Voldemort looked up at that. "Anymore?" he mused dryly. "Did you misplace him?"

Draco looked to the side. "You could say that," he said with a shrug. "I lost him in a game of écarté."

"Of course you did," Voldemort replied with a mild smile. He shook his head fondly. "Draco, Draco, Draco," he sighed. "You really should learn not to gamble with such treasured possessions. There's always a chance the man beside you is playing a better game."

There was a twinkle in the Dark Lord's black eyes that gave the lighthearted words an eerie tone, and Draco wondered briefly if they were the veiled warning they seemed to be.

"My gambling days are behind me," he assured his master, standing straight, still, and completely reserved.

"Oh, I hope not," Voldemort returned, his black eyes shining. "What would be the fun in that?"

Silence fell, the two watching one another—one man's gaze grey and guarded, the other's black and bright and somehow knowing. Long seconds passed before the Dark Lord spoke again, putting an end to the deafening quiet.

"In any case, we need to be able to communicate," he said with a grin. "Until you win back your bird, I would be more than happy to lend you mine…"

He snapped his fingers, the sharp sound echoing in the silence, and at once, the dark creature appeared, floating up from somewhere out of sight and onto its master's waiting arm. The raven was everything myths and superstitions made the species out to be—mysterious and majestic, with smooth black feathers and piercing pale eyes.

"I call her Nerezza. She always knows where to find me." Voldemort affectionately stroked her long midnight plumes before extending his arm, guiding her to Draco, watching with warm eyes as she settled on his forearm.

The raven was heavy, and Draco could feel its claws digging into his flesh, puncturing, breaking his skin. But he didn't grimace, didn't so much as flinch. He was like stone, strong, hard, and invulnerable; like a shadow, vague and removed from pain.

One long, soundless moment passed, dark eyes smiling into unreadable marble ones. Again, it was the Dark Lord who broke the silence—this time with a resounding clap of his hands. "Now, as much as I'd love to stay, I really should be going. The walls in this place have eyes and ears—and they all report back to my old professor." His black eyes narrowed, sparkling and sinister. "I wouldn't want dear old Dumbledore finding me out." His pale mouth curved. "Not yet, anyway." After a moment, he turned those bright eyes from Draco and gazed fondly around at the room. "It looks just the same, you know," he said nostalgically. "Right down to the tiniest cross-stitch on the duvet." One knobby fingertip ran slowly over the bedspread. He looked back to Draco, his wistful smile turning sly. "Of course, your year as Head Boy is shaping up to be ten times as eventful as mine ever could have been…"

Draco said nothing. He didn't need to be reminded.

"I'll be seeing you at the manor for our weekly meeting, won't I?" the Dark Lord asked him. "Same time as usual?"

He nodded once. "Of course."

"Of course," Voldemort echoed with a smirk. He looked Draco over one final time before stepping to the glass door, his robe sweeping the carpet behind him. "Be sure to send my regards to your whore," he said over his shoulder, his voice dripping with wry amusement.

Draco smiled disinterestedly. "Which one?" he asked.

Voldemort's gaze flickered. "Which one, indeed." His black eyes fell briefly to the expensive lump in the younger man's pocket before flashing back up to smile into his eyes. "Have a pleasant evening, Draco," he said with cool satisfaction.

And then suddenly he was gone, leaving Draco and his new bird alone.

* * *

Both Harry and Ron were skeptical as they watched Hermione's thin hand cling limply to Brandon Madison's the following day. They could see how unnatural the meshing of fingers was, how uncomfortable it made Hermione, but she begged them with her eyes not to say anything, stopping them before they could so much as give Brandon a passive-aggressive glance. They forced themselves to bite their tongues, exchanging the narrowed looks they longed to send their new clan member's way.

"Why are you encouraging him, Mione?" Harry asked once Brandon was gone and they were walking alone together to class.

Hermione sighed. "We're together, Harry," was all she would say. She winced at her own words, as if saying them out loud hurt her.

"Yeah, whatever _that _means," Harry scoffed.

What _did _it mean? She had discovered that very morning that she couldn't bear Brandon's touch. How had it come to this? She had liked him once, had enjoyed his company. The thought of being more than friends with the Ravenclaw heartthrob had once been so appealing.

He was the same person he had always been. It was her that had changed. She just wasn't sure if it was for the better or for the worse…

The gaping hole in her heart was telling her it might be the latter.

Harry and Ron had yet another detention with Snape after lessons, so Brandon took it upon himself to escort Hermione to her dormitory. He took hold of her hand as soon as he found her, smiling, guiding her firmly to his side as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Hermione let him lead her through the crowded corridors, not saying a word as he began to talk about this and that.

They hadn't even made it a quarter of the way when a collection of girls intercepted them, blocking the current of students and keeping the new couple from passing by. Their leader was at the front, her dark blue eyes scanning up and down, her painted lips smiling condescendingly as she considered their joined hands.

"Pansy," Brandon greeted unenthusiastically, drawing himself and Hermione to a halt before her.

"Brandon," she returned sweetly. She glanced at Hermione. "Granger," she forced herself to add.

Hermione said nothing, only averted her gaze.

Pansy looked back at the Ravenclaw Seeker with a pleasant smile. "So I see the rumors are true," she said with false excitement. "You've finally made your little relationship official."

Brandon pasted on a patient grin. "That we have."

Pansy smiled primly. "Well isn't that quaint." She looked the couple over. "My felicitations." The words were stained with thinly veiled insincerity.

"Your sarcasm slays me," Brandon told her, his voice dead.

"Don't be silly—there is no sarcasm," the Slytherin Princess assured him. "I'm _genuinely _happy for Granger, here. She did a smart thing, snagging a catch like you." Her piercing gaze snapped to Hermione's. "A _very _smart thing." She let a meaningful moment go by before turning her eyes back to Brandon. "Unfortunately, I can't say the same for you, dear," she went on sympathetically. "You've given yourself the short end of the stick, getting involved with someone like her."

"Well you would know," Brandon returned gravely. "Being Malfoy's main squeeze makes you an expert on the subject." He saw fire ignite, but wasn't afraid. "Where is he by the way?" he asked with false interest. "Off with one of his other chits?"

Pansy skillfully kept her easy smile in place. "He would have _loved_ to be here, but he's just _swamped_ with Head Boy duties," she told him, disguising the hit with her signature pout. "Oh, I know how dearly you wanted the position, but you really should be grateful they didn't end up choosing you in the end. All that responsibility is _such_ a bother. And far more time-consuming than being a Prefect."

Brandon's jaw worked at the words. "And yet Hermione has had no problem fitting me into her busy Head Girl schedule," he replied. He shrugged one shoulder. "I guess _I've _been made a priority," he taunted with a smile.

Pansy's eyes narrowed at the insinuation that she _hadn't_. "Well, it's been fun catching up, Brandon," she snapped, her chin raising, "but isn't it time you and your new _pet_ were on your way."

"So it is," Brandon answered complacently. He waited for the gang of girls to part before guiding Hermione through. "Give my regards to your boyfriend," he threw out over his shoulder. A pause. "On second thought, I'll probably see him before you will. I'll just give them to him myself."

The jab was meant for the Slytherin Goddess—but the words 'your boyfriend' secretly hurt Hermione, too. They were a reminder that no matter how much distance was between Draco and Pansy, there was an even wider chasm between Draco and herself.

She let herself be led around the corner, and then, again, to be drawn to a halt. "I'm sorry about that," Brandon said soothingly. She could feel his tender hand running over her hair. "They're animals," he told her. "They go straight for the jugular."

"It's alright," she assured him quietly, taking his hand from her head and holding it lightly in hers. The feel of his fingers in her hair—so like Draco's, but so _unlike _them—was almost more than she could bear.

"No, it's not alright," he insisted. "It's _despicable_ the way they traipse around like they're better than everyone else." He shook his head, the incident rousing his gentleman-like sensibilities. "_They _are despicable—the Parkinsons, the Malfoys, and their whole despicable lot."

"Their whole lot?" Hermione asked with a tired smile. "I thought the Madisons were a part of that crowd."

Brandon shrugged indifferently. "We are but we aren't." Hermione sent him a quizzical smile, and he laughed under his breath. Tightening his hand around hers he began to slowly walk again. "The name Madison may mean something now, but it didn't always, you know. My family's history doesn't go back nearly as far as theirs," he explained. "We were nobodies until a few generations ago—pure-blooded, but poor, plain bumpkin laborers whose only glimpses of affluence were from the fields we worked on grand country estates."

Hermione let him swing their linked hands back and forth as they walked. She listened silently, dutifully—trying not to let her mind wander off or dwell on Draco, as it so often longed to do.

"And then one day my grandfather struck gold. Literally," he told her. "He stumbled upon it while carving a sitting-alcove into one of the hillsides near his cottage—a nook for his new wife, my grandmother, to read in during the summer." Brandon shrugged his shoulder. "He made some good investments and turned the earnings from that mine into a fortune. And soon enough, he had almost as much money as the aristocrats whose land he and his father had been working all their lives."

They rounded a corner. Side by side, hand in hand, they began to climb the main staircase.

"So the Parkinsons and their ilk grudgingly accepted us into their little circle," Brandon continued. "With money like ours, they didn't have a choice." He looked to the side. "But they're disdainful of what they call the '_nouveau riche_'. And we're disdainful of anyone who thinks that fortunes and bloodlines somehow magically make you superior." He suddenly drew her to a halt right there on the steps, meaningfully meeting her soft and tired gaze. "So, you see, we aren't all like the Malfoys," he told her seriously. He glanced down the staircase, into the shadows, then back into her clear brown eyes. "I'm nothing like the supposed Slytherin Prince."

Hermione longed to smile, to reassure, but couldn't. "I know that," was all she could quietly—and honestly—say.

Brandon's mouth tilted up warmly. He obviously believed that he had come out the victor in the comparison, and Hermione wasn't about to tell him otherwise.

She wasn't about to tell him the truth…

Brandon turned, beginning to step up the stairs once again, guiding Hermione alongside. "So what about your family?" he asked conversationally. She stayed silent. "Your parents," he urged. "What did you say they do for a living?"

Hermione didn't know how he could hold her hand when it felt as heavy as lead. "They're in the dental industry," she answered dutifully after a moment. He sent her a puzzled look. "They… fix people's teeth," she simplified further.

His eyebrows went up. "Oh. Grand," he declared. "I imagine that's hard work… you know, without magic."

Hermione shrugged one shoulder weakly. "You'd be surprised what people can do without a wand," she replied. "We don't need spells to repair things, really." Her smile was faint and haunted. "Any more than we do to break them…"

Those mysterious words, said in that vague and veiled tone, had him looking curiously to the side. "You don't think there are certain advantages to having the kind of power we do?"

Hermione shrugged that same slender shoulder. "There are all different kinds of power, Brandon," she told him, a little sadly. "The things that are truly broken can't even be fixed by magic."

Brandon frowned. Her dark brown eyes had that faraway look, the one that had intrigued him when they were Prefects, the one that had drawn him to her. But he was realizing now that it was really what kept him away. She was somewhere else when she had that look. Somewhere he wanted to be but wasn't sure how to get to.

So he'd decided the only way to get to her was to ground her—to bring her back from that mysterious place she went, that place where he couldn't follow.

He tightened his hold around her hand and put on his charming smile. "So…" he began, determined to be lighthearted, "is there much money in the—what did you call it?" He paused. "The dental industry?"

Hermione nodded mutedly. "You can make a good living," she said. "My mum is more on the corporate, manufacturing side of things." Her gaze flickered to the floor, dark and absent. "And my father is a partner in his own private practice."

Brandon nodded. "I'd love to meet them."

Hermione swallowed. "They're away a lot," she told him, though it was only half true.

"When they're around, then," the Ravenclaw said back smoothly. "And you can meet my family," he added. "I'm absolutely sure they'll love you."

Hermione was relieved to see Domek in the distance, his long mane blowing off to one side in the invisible wind—relieved she had a way of sidestepping a reply. She said the password and edged awkwardly toward the portrait, trying not to show how eagerly she wanted to run inside. "Well, thank you for walking me up," she said, backing away with a pasted on smile. "I'll… see you tomorrow."

"Not so fast," Brandon commanded, playfully pulling her back. Before she could say anything, he had her in his arms, with his lips planted against hers before she knew what was happening.

Hermione's mind flashed with visions of Draco, of him kissing her softly, holding her close. She kept her body very still—though every fiber in her being was screaming for her to wrench herself away. Brandon's lips and tongue were warm, but the heat that spread to hers was tepid and uncomfortable, so unlike the burning ice of Draco's. It was strangely soft, not like the firm, jailing kisses she and Draco had shared.

The differences were so keen that it had discomfort churning in her stomach. She was ultra-aware that it wasn't Draco. She was kissing someone else, someone who wasn't—who couldn't be—anything like him.

Hermione had to hold the grimace off her face as he pulled away. She nodded, unable to say goodbye or even to speak, and entered her dormitory with her head down.

Brandon watched the portrait slowly close, a satisfied smile crossing his face…

And then he turned, folding his arms victoriously across his chest. "Enjoy the show, Malfoy?" he asked, his eyes narrowing on the shadows where another man lurked.

Draco stepped into the light, his face and body tense, his eyes holding all the barely-contained fury he felt inside. "Do you have a _death wish_?" he asked the other man darkly.

Brandon laughed, and Draco's hand tightened around his wand; it took all of his self-control not to point it straight ahead and kill the whelp right where he stood.

"No, actually," the Ravenclaw boy said back. "Are you threatening to kill me? What, over Hermione?" Draco didn't speak, and Brandon shook his head, his eyes throwing daggers. "Shouldn't it be the other way around?" he asked pointedly. "Shouldn't I be the possessive one? She is mine now, after all."

"_Shut _your_ mouth_," Draco said through his teeth. His hand was strangling his wand, holding so tightly that he could feel splinters cut his palm.

Brandon smiled, unthreatened by the infamous volatility; there was an edge to the lifting of lips, the weeks of building resentment making it forced and sarcastic. "We've been good competitors these past couple of months," he dared to go on edgily. "But don't you think things have gone far enough?" There was a pause. "You got the Snitch. I got the girl." He shrugged a taunting shoulder. "Why don't we just call it even?"

Draco restrained his violent instincts—but only barely. "Be _very_ careful what you say to me, Madison," he warned the other man dangerously. "I'll make it so that you never play another game of quidditch or kiss another woman again."

Brandon only shook his head in disgust. "I know you're used to having whatever girl you want—even if the poor thing is already spoken for." He took one powerful step forward, the movement stating he wasn't intimidated. "But I'm not like the other blokes who turn a blind eye while you shag their chits on the side," he informed him harshly. "I won't stand by and let you take what belongs to me." His arms crossed his broad chest, strong and resolute. "So I'd watch my step if I were you, mate," he advised.

And that was it. The possessive words had flames of fury singeing through the last straining strand of patience, unleashing the violence that was always so carefully contained. Suddenly the back of Draco's fist was flying, his knuckles colliding hard with the other man's left temple.

"I'd watch my _back _if I were you," he growled. "_Mate._"

The Ravenclaw Seeker staggered backwards until his back hit the wall. Dizzy and disoriented, he held the side of his head.

Draco's wand was pointed meaningfully an inch away from Brandon's forehead, and he had to use every ounce of restraint he possessed to keep himself from whispering the torturous words. Instead, he bit out the password and stormed through the portrait, leaving the ponce behind before he lost any more of his careful control.

Hermione was sitting on the sofa just inside, staring into the fireplace, though no fire was burning. Her head snapped around, startled by the slam of the portrait. She met Draco's eyes, could instantly see the rage there. Fury was simmering in sparks all around him, hot and dark and dangerous.

She knew right away that he had seen everything.

The silence ate away at her. After a few long, intense moments, she stood, breaking their gazes and hurrying towards her bedchamber.

"Running away?"

The harsh words made her pause. She turned. "Yes," she answered softly. If she didn't run, she knew the emptiness would kill her.

Draco came closer with slow, deliberate steps. He reached out, but she backed away from him, trying to protect herself from the ache in her heart, the one that worsened every time he came near… that forbidden ache that spread through her body every time he touched her.

Draco's silver eyes slitted at the rejection. "Is my touch so disgusting to you?" he demanded bitterly. "Am I such a monster?" His suspended hand fisted. "Or do you prefer _him_ now?" he spat, drawing it back.

"Draco…" Hermione tried to speak, to explain, but didn't know how. She only shook her head.

For a very brief moment, Draco considered backing away. But the hurt and fury was mixing like a poison, driving him forward, making him dangerous. He had to know she still felt for him. He had to be sure it hadn't all been a dream.

Purposefully, he stepped closer once more, and this time she stayed still, jailed by his gaze.

Hermione knew she should move, knew she should run away. But she wanted his touch, wanted his arms around her. She wanted it more than she wanted to go on breathing.

His hands took hold of her shoulders, gripping her, slowly pulling her body flush against him. Their breathing, slowly, arduously rolling in and out, was the only sound against the silence.

"You said you'd keep your distance," Hermione whispered, trying and failing to keep her senses.

"I know," he answered, unable to keep himself from leaning into her. His breath brushed her ear. "But I can't stay away."

The words filled her, hurt her—wiped away the last of her resolve. She moaned as his lips traveled down her jaw.

"I saw him kiss you," he said raggedly against her skin. "I could have killed him for it." She heard the possession in his voice, felt it melt her heart and weaken her bones. "You hated it, though," he whispered harshly. "You wished it was me."

Hermione's breathing was tumbling rapidly in and out. His lips were a whisper away from hers, and she couldn't think of anything at all except that she needed him to kiss her. His words were only an echo in the back of her mind; she was too lost, too dizzy, too breathless to answer with anything more than a helpless shake of her head.

"Say it," he ordered, shaking her. "You wished it was me."

"I wished it was you."

The last word was lost as his mouth crashed down onto hers. His tongue pushed past her lips, stroking hers with all the passion that had been imprisoned inside. It had been weeks and weeks since they'd been this close, and her taste had haunted him every second.

His hands roamed down her back and over her bottom, dragging her closer against his body, melding them together. His mouth left hers to travel down her now-bare throat—and the absence of his necklace had him gritting his teeth.

"He can't have you," he ground out. "You're mine."

His torrid grip was burning her, suffocating her of breath, of reason. "I'm yours," she repeated, her voice a throaty whisper.

The words filled him with heat, with relief. They drove him onward.

"Tell me you love me." His voice was desperate, commanding. She didn't answer. "Tell me you love me," he ordered again.

Her eyes clashed with his. "I love you."

The words attacked Draco's heart, filling him, then draining him again, leaving him empty. The Draco Malfoy she loved was gone forever, a shadow in his place...

He took a deep, steadying breath and then held her away. He closed his eyes tightly, praying for control, for sanity to return. He stepped back. "You love a dead man," he told her coolly. "I'm not sure he ever existed at all." His voice, moments ago so ardent and tortured with passion, was now so cold, so emotionless and harsh.

Hermione closed her honey eyes. The pain was easing its way back into her heart. She was remembering now why they needed to keep their distance. These brief interludes that they shared were only that—_brief_, like fireworks, hot, fast, and fleeting. The sparks would fly and then burn out too quickly. The sky would light up and then darken again too soon. They would always have to say goodbye in the end…

And she couldn't keep doing it. Feeling him pull away all over again was torture. It would kill her, just like it was killing her right now.

"Draco…"

She opened her misted eyes, but he was gone.

* * *

"What_ happened_ to you?"

Hermione rose from the stone bench with a start the following morning, her brows furrowing concernedly as a bruised Brandon approached. Automatically, she pulled her cream-white mitten from over her fingers, reaching out to let them flutter softly over the black and blue.

"A stray Bludger during quidditch practice yesterday," he said tightly, wincing as he felt her fingertips gently brush the vicious bruise. "It's not a big deal," he assured her, taking her hand away from his face, warming it in both of his.

Harry and Ron stared dubiously at the dark discoloration. "I thought Hufflepuff has the pitch on Thursdays," the emerald-eyed man stated calmly.

"They do," Ron confirmed, turning his gaze to Brandon, the expectant look in them saying that they could see through him like water.

Brandon's jaw tightened visibly, and his eyes held the vague hint of annoyance. "You caught me," he said finally, forcing a smile. "The truth is… I got into a kind of… scuffle."

The boys' eyes narrowed. Hermione's widened. "A scuffle?" she asked, frowning. "You mean a _fistfight_? With who?"

Brandon's gaze went to Harry and Ron for aid, but the other men only stared interestedly back at him. "Draco Malfoy," he reluctantly admitted at last.

Hermione tugged her hand out of his warm grasp. "What?" she asked, all the concern draining from her face. Draco and Brandon had fought? Physically? "Why?"

"Who cares?" Ron put in jovially. He stepped forward and gave the Ravenclaw a congratulatory pat on the back. "Did you get a few good shots in?" he asked eagerly. "How bad does the ferret look?"

"Better than he feels, I'm sure," Brandon assured them awkwardly.

Harry crossed his arms. "So you _won _the fight, then," he said skeptically, unconvinced.

Brandon looked cautiously between the raven-haired man and Hermione, wondering how to respond. He decided that ambivalence would be the safest bet. "I wouldn't say there was a winner, per se…" he answered carefully.

"Who _cares_?" Ron repeated exasperatedly. "The damned bastard got knocked down a peg—that's all that really matters."

Brandon nodded, his gaze narrowing speculatively on Hermione. "You're not angry, are you?" he asked her quietly, taking her hand in his again.

Hermione looked down, trying to find some objectivity. "As long as no one got hurt," she forced herself to finally say.

Brandon smiled, satisfied, thinking she meant as long as _he _hadn't gotten hurt. "It's just a scratch," he assured her with a nonchalant shrug of his shoulder.

"It's a bit more than a scratch," Harry corrected mildly. He let his gaze shift slowly to Hermione. She was torn, he could tell; he could practically see the way her thoughts raced through her mind. She was obviously surprised, but he couldn't call her confused. In fact, she seemed guiltily aware of the unnamed source of conflict between the gentlemanly Brandon Madison and the volatile Head Boy.

He forced a smile. "We're off to Ancient Ruins," he told her, pulling his bag onto his shoulder. "What class do you have?"

Hermione sighed. "Advanced Transfiguration."

Harry looked from her to Ron. "We could walk you," he offered gently.

"I can do it," Brandon broke in. "I'm going that way, anyway. And Hermione is my girlfriend, after all," he added, putting his arm around her, pulling her tight against his side.

The boys sent Hermione a look, and she smiled, trying to diffuse the tension. It didn't really work, not even for herself. "You guys go on. I'll see you later."

They looked hesitant, but nodded. "Fine." Harry turned to Brandon and nodded. "Brandon."

"See you."

"Yeah," Ron said, still smiling with amusement. "See you."

Hermione and Brandon watched them walk away with twin frowns before turning and heading off, themselves. They stepped side-by-side in silence, their shoulders brushing, both of them sorting through their own thoughts.

Hermione was very aware of the man beside her. His shoulder touched hers as they moved down the corridor. She could smell his cologne; hear his footsteps. And all she could think was that none of it was right. The scent, the sound. She was overly conscious that it wasn't Draco. It was someone else, someone new.

She suddenly stopped.

Brandon slowed, looking over his shoulder, then coming back to her, his brows furrowed in concern. "Are you okay?" he asked, cupping her shoulder. "Is something wrong?"

She swallowed slowly. She couldn't tell him no—didn't want to tell him yes_. _Didn't want to tell him, even though it was the truth.

He bent a little, trying to look into her eyes. "What is it?" he asked her. "What's the matter?"

Hermione opened her mouth—closed it. Opened it again. "I… can't do this," she admitted at last.

Brandon looked consciously around at the people passing by. "Can't do what?" he asked back, pasting on a tense smile.

"This." Hermione looked up at him. "Be with you."

Brandon swallowed. "Of course you can," he said with a nervous laugh. "It's easy."

Only it _wasn't_ easy. Not for her. "This can't work out," she told him quietly. "I can't work it out. I thought that maybe I could, that maybe _we _could, but we can't."

Brandon guided her to the side of the corridor, out of the flow of passersby, looked down cautiously into those dark, mysterious eyes. "What's going on, Mione," he asked her seriously. "Is this about the fight?" _Is this about _Malfoy?

_Yes. _"This is about me," she said instead, speaking only in half-truth. She shook her head, not wanting to explain—knowing she would have to if she was ever going to break away. She sighed inaudibly. "I was feeling empty," she told him quietly, "like something was missing. And I thought that inserting you into my life would fill the empty space." She looked solemnly down at her slender hands, which were wringing of their own accord. "But it hasn't. It can't…"

Nothing but Draco could.

Brandon laughed softly, but there was tension behind the sound. "It doesn't have to be serious as all that," he insisted affectionately. "Things can be casual. Nothing too heavy."

"It wouldn't be right," she resisted. "It wouldn't be fair, not to either of us." She sighed again, the sound like water trickling, and brought her dark gaze back up to his. "I see they way you look at me, Brandon—so enraptured and full of wonder." She shook her head sadly, her curls lazily swaying against her breast. "I'll never be able to look at you that same way."

"Because I'm nothing special to look at," he tried to dismiss lightheartedly. "I'm just a plain bloke. I'm not different the way you are." He stroked a tender and pleading hand over her hair.

Hermione took the hand away from her head with a haunted look. "I'm not different in a good way, Brandon," she told him bitterly. "If only you knew…"

"I _want_ to know," he told her adamantly. "Tell me. Show me." His eyes were eager. "Let me in."

"No," she refused.

"Good or bad, I can take it," he insisted. His fingers tightened around hers. "I can take care of you."

Hermione's hand was limp inside of his. "I know," she said with a gentle smile. "But I would just be pretending. It would only be a lie."

The verdict was in. Brandon could feel the gavel slamming—was desperate to stop it. "Maybe with time—"

"I don't want to hurt you, Brandon." Slowly, purposefully, Hermione pulled her hand out of his. "That's why I'm ending it now."

_I'm in love with someone else. I will love him until I die._

She didn't say the words, but Brandon could somehow feel them. And he knew it was over—that maybe it had never even really begun. "There's nothing I can say, is there?" he asked her warily. His jaw tightened as she slowly shook her head. He nodded. "Okay," he forced himself to say. He adjusted the strap of his bag on his shoulder, somehow managing a somnolent smile. "If you ever change your mind…"

She only shook her head. "I won't. I'm sorry."

Brandon looked reluctant. "Yeah, me too." He glanced down the corridor, where the stream of students was thinning out. He looked back at her, wanting her to stop him, wanting to stay. But she didn't—so he couldn't. He had to walk away. "Well… I guess this is it, then." Hermione looked down, nodded. "See you around?"

"Yes," she whispered. "See you around."

She watched him turn and disappear into the current, sighing with regret, but also with relief. She looked down the crowded corridor, and her eyes found a pair of cool grey ones, still and stark amidst the sea of motion. They stared at each other, sadness connecting with severity.

And then both of them turned away.


	15. Happy Christmas

_Saving You Summary—DMHG. Hermione Granger has a secret, one that's literally killing her: she has been suffering extreme abuse at the hands of her father. Who will come to her rescue? What if the only one who can is Draco Malfoy? Rated M for sexual content (including rape), suicide ideation, and violence._

_Disclaimer—Most of the characters and a lot of the setting belong to J.K. Rowling. The rest is mine._

A/N: Last updated Jul. 18, 2010.

* * *

**:::Happy Christmas:::**

The end of November flowed into the beginning of December, bringing with it the icy days of winter. Christmas vacation loomed over Hermione, and thoughts of going home haunted her like vengeful ghosts. Time seemed to be moving in fast-forward, carrying her into the future where a monster lay waiting—the one from _inside_ the bed rather than from under it. The thought of going home weighed heavy on her shoulders, but aside from being fatigued, she found that she was unaffected. She was a ghost again, faded, withered, and detached—a phantom, appearing to be real, but not actually existing. The past and the present had blended together until they'd become like one. And there was nothing to keep it from slowly easing forward, mixing with—and tainting—the future.

Hermione sat, her mind lost in that vague, faraway place. She didn't hear her two friends approaching, didn't notice as they seated themselves on either side.

"What are you thinking about?" Harry asked, recognizing that distant look, fearing it, despising it.

She languidly awoke from her trance. "Christmas," she told him softly.

Ron's smile was skeptical and his blue eyes were bright and amused. "Yes, because the idea of a jolly fat man giving out free gifts really _is _something to stew about."

He put an arm around Hermione's shoulder, but she couldn't muster a smile. They didn't know that Santa Claus hadn't visited her home in ages. Father Christmas had abandoned her years before, leaving her in the grips of another father, one whose only gifts to her were bruises and broken bones.

"Aren't you excited?" Harry asked, taking in that familiar haunted look on her face, wanting to understand it, wanting to somehow soothe it away.

"About going home?" she asked. He nodded. Hermione shrugged one weak shoulder. "I'd rather be going to the Burrow as usual." It wasn't a lie, but it wasn't everything. She couldn't tell them _everything_, no matter how badly she burned to…

There were some things they could never know…

Ron smiled comfortingly. "Don't worry, you won't be missing much," he told her. "And my mum will owl you your annual holiday sweater."

Hermione smiled faintly at that. Though her gift from Mrs. Weasley was the same year after year, not a Christmas had gone by where she hadn't adored untying the ribbon, peeling back the paper, and finding the knitted sweater. She supposed it was because she was so unused to presents. Aside from _life_, her own mother had never given her a thing…

And she sometimes wished Diana Granger hadn't given her even that.

"And we'll still see you," Ron continued. "We're taking you Christmas shopping, remember?"

"Maybe," she told him quietly. It all depended on her father, on his schedule, on his mood. And it depended on her, on how hard the bruises were to hide. She would die of shame before letting her friends see her that way.

The statement caused the two boys to look worriedly at each other. They had spent the last few nights discussing Hermione and making plans to check up on her. Both were concerned that in their absence she would take a turn for the worst. Harry and Ron were determined not to let that happen. Not this time.

Hermione smiled in an attempt to soothe, somehow reading their thoughts. "I have homework to finish," she told them quietly.

"I sincerely doubt that," Ron replied, but he didn't object when she stood from the table.

"I'll see you in a while. You can come up when you want." She leaned down and absently kissed each boy on the forehead. They said nothing, just watched her go with solemn eyes.

"Something's wrong," Harry said once she was out of sight.

"You_ think_?" Ron asked harshly, turning away from the entrance where Hermione had disappeared.

Harry sighed. "At least things are evening out," he said, scratching his head uncomfortably. "At least she's not getting worse."

"She's not getting better, either," Ron returned edgily, looking down at his folded hands. "And who knows what will happen if we don't watch her over holiday."

Harry nodded. "We will. We have to." He'd decided on that much.

There was silence. Ron's jaw was tight, and when he spoke next his eyes were bright. "What's the matter with her?" he asked miserably. "Why won't she just tell us?"

"I don't know." Harry thought of Malfoy, wondered bitterly if he knew all the answers to their desperate questions. Something was telling the black-haired boy that he might.

A sudden anger filled him, darkening the emerald eyes behind his black-frame glasses. He should have pressed for answers when he had confronted his enemy in Hogsmeade. He should have demanded for information, should have beaten it out of him.

Now it was beginning to look like it might be too late.

* * *

Ron was right—Hermione didn't actually have homework to finish. Like always, she was way ahead in her studies, leaving gaping chunks of free time to do nothing but think. And, like always, books had filled the gap.

People would by no means call _The Snake Charmer_ a page-turner. It wasn't the kind of story that kept people up at night. It was more a textbook than anything—a long and detailed account of Salazar Slytherin's life and work. But strangely, Hermione was having a hard time putting it down. Her brain was suddenly thirsting for knowledge about that darker side of life. She wanted to learn everything she could about Slytherin—what he did, what he stood for. Maybe then she could understand why Draco wanted to follow down his path.

With a whispered word, the centaur portrait swung open. Hermione entered. And then suddenly stopped short.

The whole Slytherin Court was there peering back at her, their laughing smiles freezing on their faces, turning interested, cruel.

Zabini, Crabbe, and Goyle were on the sofa, the two bigger boys crowded on one side, making room for Blaise to spread out casually with his legs crossed on the coffee table in front of him. The three men watched her amusedly, though the darker man's gaze seemed more analytical than the rest.

Draco was in the far chair, looking serious and restrained, his silver gaze watching the half-empty bottle in his hand instead of her. Pansy was on his lap, one arm draped casually around his shoulder, her dark blue eyes looking smugly in Hermione's direction. Unlike the men, there was no firewhiskey in her grasp. Instead, she was armed with a book—_Hermione's_ book.

"Interesting choice of reading," the she complimented with bite, holding up _The Snake Charmer _with her green-painted fingers. "I've been searching for a good book. Do you recommend it?"

Hermione looked straight into her eyes. "If you haven't read it already."

Pansy smiled at the uninspired reply. "I never needed to," she answered breezily. "It was my mother's bedtime story to me as a child." She exchanged laughing glances with Crabbe and Goyle. The two boys began to snicker, but a dead look from Draco had them instantly quiet.

Hermione stepped in further. "I don't want to spoil your party…" she said wearily after a moment.

"Too late for that," Pansy bit back.

Hermione smiled patiently, the turning up of lips distant, characterless. "If you'll just give me my book back, I'll get out of your way." Her brown eyes drifted to Draco, but he wouldn't meet her gaze.

"Fine," Pansy agreed. Her shrug was nonchalant, but her eyes were bright. "If you want it… come and get it," she commanded like a queen.

Hermione's eyes looked warily from Pansy's to the book she waved in one hand. Slowly, she stepped forward, and Blaise drew up his legs, allowing her to get by. She reached the chair, her brown eyes seeking out Draco's. He still didn't look back, only stared taciturnly at his drink.

"Well?" Pansy asked impatiently, holding up the book.

Slowly, silently, Hermione reached out to take it. "Thank you," she whispered once it was safe in her grasp.

Pansy smiled with sugar-sweet spite. "Any time."

Hermione nodded, turned. But just as she began to walk away, the Slytherin Princess extended one perfect leg into her path, tripping her, causing her to stumble forward.

Hermione felt the familiar sensation of her body plummeting forward. She felt the familiar smack and burn of the carpet against her knees, the familiar sting of her hands trying and failing to break her fall. She experienced it as if through a wall of her parents' novocaine—feeling the poke but not the pain. There was cruel laughter, but strangely she wasn't embarrassed. It was the old numbness. It had seeped in again, poisoning her, saving her, curing her of shame.

"_Enough!_"

It wasn't Draco's voice, but Blaise Zabini's that rang out through the room. He was sitting up straight now, looking around at the others with the disapproval of a king. His friends looked back, surprised, perplexed. But though Draco's jaw visibly tightened, his eyes were still unreadable and turned away.

"It was an accident," Pansy explained innocently. She had been hoping for tears or at least a groan from Granger, but there wasn't so much as a wince or a rouging of the other girl's cheeks. The sloe-eyed beauty's only victory was the slow, careful way Hermione pushed herself up off the floor and back onto her feet.

Blaise settled back again, his brow raising pointedly at the Slytherin Princess's satisfied grin. "Really, Pansy," he told her, his voice lowering. "It's enough."

Hermione sent one last tired look over her shoulder. She met Draco's haunted gaze for one second, two, before turning back and walking away.

"I guess some people don't know how to take a joke," Pansy declared, exchanging another laugh with Crabbe and Goyle. But neither Blaise nor Draco smiled. Both were staring into their drinks, their eyes dark and their jaws tight.

* * *

Needing air, Hermione moved out onto the balcony, lowering slowly onto the cool wooden patio chair in the corner.

The midday sun was bright and shining, but the arctic breeze prevented any real warmth from reaching the earth's surface. The world around her was layered in white—snow cascaded over the bank of the lake, and the waves were stilled and frozen over with ice. Icicles pointed down from the tops of the carved windows, and every surface—even the seat of her wooden chair—was dusted with a sparkling sheen of frost. She didn't mind it though. The winter ice had a way of numbing her painful thoughts until they couldn't hurt her anymore. She knew Pansy had wanted her to cry back there, but her eyes were so dry she could feel them burn. It was as if the icy air had frozen them before they could fall or even form.

The image of Draco and Pansy sitting so close had Hermione's shoulders sagging wearily. It was a cold reminder that she could never—would never—have that with him. She would never be able to casually spend time with him, would never sit on his lap the way girls did with their men.

Swallowing, she shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts. This was what keeping their distance meant—moving on, pretending things had never changed between them, pretending those brief months they'd shared had never happened. This was what she'd wanted him to do—what she'd tried to force herself to do with Brandon. She should have been grateful that he was finally staying away.

She should have been… but she wasn't. She wasn't anything but numb.

Her wary eyes watched the iced-over lake, watched the flat, frozen waves reach out into the bright horizon. The minutes went by so slowly, so stilly, that time had the illusion of being as frozen as the world it passed by. Even the wind seemed to stand motionless, leaving nothing but frigid silence. It stayed that way, as frozen and changeless as a muggle picture—until something appeared in the distance, a dark dot silhouetted in the sunlight. It seemed to be a mere shadow at first, as if it had no solid form, as if it was materializing into—or maybe even made from—the cold, still winter haze. But as it slowly, powerfully soared towards her, she could see the gleam of silky black feathers, could see the sparkle of burnished black eyes. She watched, dull, unmoving, as the raven floated down to perch on the balcony's stone parapet, exactly in the place from where she had jumped to the cliffs below.

The bird watched her as she watched it, a smile seaming to curve its sharp beak, a knowing look drowning its dark, warm eyes. Hermione hated that smile, hated the way the bird seemed to watch her, as if it knew her secrets, or the secrets she didn't yet know—as if the sky had whispered her fate into its ear, as if it had seen what was written in the stars.

Slowly, the creature edged closer to her, carefully fluttered to the flat wooden arm of her chair.

Hermione didn't flinch, didn't cower away. She merely watched the thing with narrowed eyes. "What do you want?" she asked the bird tiredly.

It tilted its head, its feathers gleaming with shades of green. Its eyes seemed to be filled with rueful warmth, seemed to be answering her with something akin to regret. Watching her, it cautiously lowered its head, gently rubbed it against her thin, cold hand.

A tiny line appeared between Hermione's brows. The soft feel of feathers fell over her like an omen. "You think I'm dead already, don't you?" she whispered softly to the raven, revered by so many for being a follower of death. She smiled warily. "If only it could be that simple."

The bird's head snapped up then, its eyes suddenly turning, sharpening alertly on Draco's balcony door. It turned back to her, peering at her with one last coded look, before spreading its dark wings and flying away.

It disappeared from sight just as Draco came into it. His door opened, and slowly, quietly, he stepped into the frigid air. She was sitting still, staring somewhere beyond the arm of her chair with solemn eyes. He never would have guessed that it was Voldemort's raven—_his _raven—that she silently contemplated with that tired frown.

"You shouldn't be out here in this cold."

His voice was quiet. She hadn't even heard him approach.

She nodded numbly. "I know," she answered. "It feels good though." There was silence. After a little while, she turned her head, slowly met his eyes with her dark and weary ones. "I'm sorry about in there," she told him softly. "I didn't mean to intrude. If I had known you'd be here…"

"You wouldn't have come," he finished stonily. "I know." He stepped forward, wanting to be near her with every fiber of his body—knowing he could only come so close. Instead of going to her chair, he turned and strode to the parapet, letting his hands rest on the frost-layered stone. "You shouldn't be the one apologizing," he went on quietly, his gaze looking out at the lake. The waves were gone now, still and frozen over. "The way they treated you…"

"It's nothing new," she said with a tired smile. "I can take care of myself."

Draco nodded, but he wasn't sure. She seemed fragile still. He recognized that broken look in her brown eyes, the one that told him she was hurting somewhere beyond the veil of weariness.

"You ended things with Madison, I take it," he said impassively after another pause. He still wasn't looking at her.

Hermione silently tapped her fingers against the now-cool cover of her book. "Yes," she answered. She looked up at him then, her honey eyes watching the profile of his lips, the rush of frost that came in and out as he breathed. "You didn't tell me you'd fought with him," she added quietly.

Draco smiled humorlessly out at the horizon. "It was more an exchanging of words," he told her with a careless shrug. He glanced at her for just a moment. "Except for the part where I hit him."

"I saw the bruise." Hermione looked down. "You shouldn't have done that," she whispered.

Draco turned to her then, his eyes intense. "He shouldn't have kissed you," he countered dangerously.

Hermione opened her mouth to reply, to say something, anything, but no words came out. Their eyes were locked together, bright, bold. She longed so badly to rise up and go to him, to hold him close and tell him that she wanted to kiss only him, that she _loved _only _him_—that she couldn't bear the thought of being with anyone else.

But she didn't. She couldn't. It would only be one more interlude. And that could never be enough, not for her.

She looked into his sliver eyes. She knew it could never be enough for him, either.

Every piece of Draco's heart was saying _go to her_. He wanted to feel her in his arms, feel her lips on his. He wanted to kiss away her hurt, have her kiss away his. He wanted to feel the way he did when she was close—that safe, warm feeling, the one that assured him anything was possible, that everything eventually would somehow be okay.

He began to go to her. "Hermione…"

But just as he was stepping forward, two newcomers entered the scene. Hermione's bedroom door opened all of a sudden, presenting Harry Potter and his sidekick, Weasley.

Draco halted immediately.

Hermione was both disappointed and relieved when her friends came through the door. She knew if they hadn't, he would have edged closer. He would have pulled her up out of the chair, would have taken her into his arms. And she wouldn't have been able to deny him.

"Malfoy," Ron acknowledged, practically snarling.

"Weasley," Draco returned easily enough, pasting on his trademark smirk. "Potter." He nodded to the other boy, who was glaring at him through narrowed eyes. "Lovely weather we're having, isn't it?"

Ron crossed his arms and turned to Hermione. "You must be mad sitting out here without a sweater," he reprimanded gently. "It's freezing!"

"The company doesn't seem all that appealing, either," Harry added coldly, his voice low, his eyes still throwing daggers at the other man. _I told you to stay away, _they were screaming. _I told you to leave Hermione alone._

"It's not that bad," Hermione stated softly, rubbing warmth into her upper arms.

Ron paused in the middle of shedding his jacket. "I _pray_ you mean the cold," he told her, his eyes round and horrified.

"I do," she whispered underneath the wind. It was true—she _had _meant the cold. Because the company was torture. Sweet, _brutal_ torture.

Ron nodded with satisfaction and draped the jacket over her. Hermione felt the material fall over her shoulders, shielding her from the brisk winter air.

"We should go in, Mione," she heard Harry say, his voice serious—and, for some reason, hostile. She looked up at her friend. Though his voice had addressed her, his eyes were fixed on the blond-haired man a few feet away, threatening and territorial.

Draco only smiled, unaffected. "Yes. Go," he taunted quietly. "There must be _somewhere_ where you're wanted."

Harry's jaw clenched. He turned to Hermione, whose eyes had lowered, hurt and haunted by the words. They had been aimed in Potter's direction—but she felt them as if they'd been meant only for her. "Come on, Mione," he urged, his hand going protectively to her back, his voice dark, like the bark of a guard dog. "Let's go."

Hermione hesitated. She chanced a glance back at Draco. All the feeling on his face had evaporated into nothing, leaving the mordant statue-man that she remembered from that day in the spare classroom, the one that had cruelly and callously sent her away.

"Okay," she relented quietly, slowly pushing herself from her seat. The boys let her pass, and she disappeared into the room without looking back.

Harry and Ron stayed a moment longer, still staring Draco down.

"Was there something else?" the Head Boy asked haughtily, one blond brow raised aloofly.

"Not a thing," Ron told him, and Harry almost thought his friend had spoken too soon.

Draco nodded, reading the other man's thoughts without having to hear them. He smiled, laughed under his breath—and then turned to return to his own room.

"We'll see you tomorrow, Malfoy," Ron called after him, making him pause. He turned back, meeting their eyes. "On the_ pitch_," the redhead reminded him when he only arched a brow.

The quidditch match. God, he had almost forgotten. The rest of his life had taken over. He'd had other games to play; this one had been the last one on his mind.

He kept his face like stone. "Until then," he returned icily, before walking away.

Ron and Harry watched him go with narrowed gazes before following in suit and heading indoors, as well.

They found Hermione on the edge of her bed, looking at them with a tired smile. "There doesn't always have to be a confrontation," she informed them quietly. "Fighting doesn't solve anything."

Ron rolled his eyes. "You chits and your pacifism," he said, throwing himself onto the bed beside her. "What did you think, that we'd just stand there and let him harass you? We _save _you, and you're whining about it! Typical. Absolutely typical."

Yes, Hermione thought. They _had _saved her—saved her from herself. If they hadn't stepped in, Draco would have pulled her up into his arms. And she would have let him. She wouldn't have been able to say no.

Harry knew what he'd seen, and it hadn't been harassment. Harassment would have been easier—expected, even. But there had been a deeper intensity between them just now, the same kind he had begun to notice more and more. It was that energy that had surrounded them when they'd danced together on Halloween. It was the sad, longing gazes he saw them share when they thought no one else was looking.

This was uncharted territory. Harry didn't know what exactly was between them, only that it was palpable—and dangerous. His jaw clenched. Malfoy must still be carrying on with her, taking advantage of her. Of course it was palpable—it was _sex_, for Merlin's sake! It was obvious now that, for whatever reason, the bastard hadn't tired of Hermione yet. If he had, he would have discarded her like the others and never given her backward glance.

But that day would come. It always did with Malfoy. He was easily bored. And he didn't _care_ about Hermione. Once he was done with her, he would leave her like he had the rest.

And what would happen then? Hermione was barely hanging on by a thread as it was. Could she face Draco's abandonment without snapping that thread and falling off the deep end? And if she couldn't, would Harry be able to catch her? He hadn't been able to the last time.

Only Malfoy had.

"Harry. You okay?"

Hermione's soft voice reached his ears, waking him from his thoughts. "Of course," he said with a comforting smile. "Everything's fine."

"He's probably thinking about the match tomorrow," Ron told her with a smile.

"Match?" she asked.

Ron's deep blue eyes rolled. "The quidditch match, Hermione," he filled in, exasperated. "Tomorrow. Against Slytherin."

Hermione frowned. The quidditch match… God, she hadn't even remembered. She'd been going through the motions. The world had turned into a blur. She'd become a dead leaf blowing in the winter wind—days, nights, people, events… she passed them by, moving so numbly that she couldn't really see them, couldn't feel them, not with any definition.

"It'll be fun smashing that damn prig into the ground," Ron said, smiling from ear to ear. "His team doesn't stand a chance." He scooted up beside Hermione, his eyes suddenly wide. "You should make signs," he told her excitedly. "You know, really big ones that say our names and stuff. Or, like, little catch phrases..."

Hermione tried to smile. "Alright. If I go."

"If?" It was Harry coming forward this time, his emerald eyes frowning. "You mean you might not?"

Hermione swallowed. How could she? Going there meant she'd have to choose between them… and she wasn't at all sure she'd make the choice she knew she should.

"But, Mione, you haven't come out to the stadium in _weeks_," Ron said, frustrated.

"Well, it's just that I have so much to do," she explained lamely.

Ron sat up with a start, the words spurring anger. "You keep _saying_ that, but I don't see you doing much of anything these days!" he accused. "I see you reading this damn _book,_ though." He grabbed up the despised Slytherin biography, glared at the cover. "You don't have time to spend with us, but you do to sit around and read about that old piece of dirt?"

"Ron," Harry broke in warningly.

"No, Harry, I want to know!" The boy was suddenly furious. His mind was remembering all the circles of hell he had walked through for this girl—and she wasn't even willing to walk across _campus_ to watch him play a simple game of quidditch? "I want to know! Is he really that interesting?" he demanded. He waved the hardcover book. "Is he really that _important_?"

Hermione looked down. It _was _important. She had to know what Draco was leaving her for. She had to understand. Maybe then she could remember how to hate him.

"Well is he, Hermione?" Ron pressed hotly, rising from the bed.

She looked at Harry for help, but he shrugged helplessly. She turned back to Ron with dull eyes. "I shouldn't have to go if I don't want to," she whispered deadly.

Ron nodded, sniffed. There was a pause. "Yeah," he agreed finally, suddenly calm. "Only, you should want to, Hermione."

The words weren't especially insightful, but Hermione felt them all the way to her heart. What could she say? Every explanation and excuse she had fell completely short.

Another moment went by. She shrugged weakly. "I just… don't think I should go," she said at last.

Ron looked away, laughed. "Whatever, Hermione," he replied with a sigh. Walking to the door, he sent her a bland smile. "Stay here. Read your damn book. We'll stop by after the match and tell you what you missed—like always." And with one last roll of his blue eyes, he was gone.

Hermione looked down at her hands. "Don't worry about him, Mione," she heard Harry say after a moment. "You know Ron—always picking a fight."

"He's right, though," she whispered. "I should want to do these things." She looked up at her friend, her brown eyes dark and tired. "I know I haven't really been myself lately."

Harry smiled comfortingly. "I'm sure you have a good reason," he told her calmly, patiently. Inside, though, he was burning to know exactly what it was…

He had a feeling once he did, he'd finally have legitimate grounds to _kill_ Draco Malfoy.

Hermione smiled sadly. She didn't want to think about _the reason _anymore. She didn't want to think about the pain, the unending disappointment. So she let it numb over, let _herself_ numb over, until nothing was left but weariness, sad and faint.

She turned away. "I'm not going to the match Harry," she whispered, unable to meet her friend's gaze. "I'm sorry. I just… can't."

Harry had to work to keep the frown off of his face. _Why_, he was desperate to ask, but didn't. He couldn't fight fire with fire—or, in this case, ice with ice. "It's okay, Mione. You don't have to go." He came closer, not stopping until he was standing over her, his hand rubbing soothing circles into her shoulder.

"What about Ron?"

Harry shrugged. "He'll get over it," he replied with a half-smile. But then the smile disappeared. "He misses you, Mione," he told her seriously. "He just doesn't know how to say it."

Hermione closed her brown eyes for just a second. She missed her, too… the real her, the one that was once again fading away.

"You look tired," Harry said after a while. "I'll let you rest." He leaned down and kissed her forehead. "We'll come and get you for dinner. Do me a favor and eat something tonight," he said as he drew away. "Maybe it will take Ron off the warpath." Hermione nodded acquiescently and he smiled, unable to hide the spark of relief from his eyes.

But as he was walking out of the room and out of the dormitory, his emerald eyes flashed with brighter emotions. He hadn't told Hermione that he himself was on the warpath, that nothing would stop him until he was sure Draco Malfoy was out of her life for good. If that bastard thought he could string her along without any opposition, he was living in a dream world…

And in for a serious crash back to reality.

* * *

The next day, the entire quidditch stadium was packed with spectators all bundled up in their scarves and mittens. Everyone had decided where their loyalties lay, each student choosing one of the two rival houses until the entire school was seemingly split down the middle. The stands were loud with clapping and cheering, even before the teams made their way out onto the snowy pitch.

Like always, Div Prescott's voice was projected loud over the calamity. He was giving his "professional" analysis of the match, reflecting on the teams' performances and statistics, predicting the advantages and obstacles they would encounter during the game.

"_Unfortunately, I don't think this match will be quite the event everybody hopes for, Sam. I don't think Draco Malfoy stands much of a chance against his longtime adversary."_

"_The Slytherin team has definitely made a comeback. But is this new surge of strength enough to beat the top-seated Gryffindors?"_

Broom gripped in one hand, Draco peeked through the curtains and onto the pitch. Of course it was enough. Harry Potter and his little team of Gryffindors had damn-near perfect stats, but it didn't intimidate the Slytherin captain for a second. He had never been afraid of the Boy-Who-Lived. His scar-faced nemesis wasn't the only one with the willpower to survive insurmountable adversity. Draco was more than willing to crush anyone who challenged him.

And Harry Potter had _definitely_ challenged him.

"_The Gryffindor captain is now leading his Golden Team out onto the field—and is looking scarily confident as he does it."_

"_And, well, he should, Sam. His team is a powerhouse!"_

The students in the crowd were screaming their support, and a few of the red-and-gold draped players waved their thanks.

"_Now all we're waiting for is the Slytherin team to find their way onto the pitch…"_

Draco pushed the curtain aside. With his chin held high, he paced through the snow to the center of the field.

"_And here they are now, looking sharp and ready for action!"_

Draco ignored the announcers' voices, ignored the screaming fans. Intent, he looked up into the towers, searching the stands for Hermione's familiar face.

"Who are you looking for?" he heard Potter's voice ask bitingly from behind him. Draco ignored him, too, and continued to scan the crowd. A moment passed, and then Harry spoke again. "You won't find her, you know. She isn't there."

Draco's head snapped around. "_Who _isn't there?" he asked, his voice low, his eyes daring Potter to say her name.

He didn't. "You know who," he bit off quietly instead.

Draco's jaw clenched. "No," he assured his enemy with stormy eyes. "I don't."

Madam Hooch came in between the two, completely unaware of the tension. She stopped at the center of the pitch and raised a hand for silence. "Players," she called, "you may take the air!"

Glaring at each other, the captains mounted their brooms and led their teams up off the white-covered grass. Moments passed in silence, with everything still. And then the referee released the balls from their prison and everyone swooped into action.

But the two Seekers stayed motionless on the air, their eyes watching each other with resentment. Neither one looked away to even try to hunt down the Snitch.

"I thought we agreed to stay out of each others way, Malfoy," Harry called to Draco after a long, stiff silence.

Draco raised one brow. "Remind me again when I agreed to that."

Harry's upper lip curled. "We had an understanding," he spat.

Draco smiled carelessly. "I don't recall that being the case," he called back drolly. "You must have… misunderstood."

Bodies were whirling underneath them, passing the ball back and forth. But the two men didn't even notice. Points were scored, but neither cared.

"No, _you _must have misunderstood," Harry said back hotly. "I told you to leave Hermione alone. I told you what would happen—what I'd do to you if you didn't. But there you were anyway, trying to sink your teeth into her on that balcony."

Draco's smile turned tight. "You didn't mind Granger and I sharing that balcony the night that she jumped off of it."

Harry's eyes went cold as ice at the words. There was a pause. Players bustled beneath them in a flurry of motion that had the crowd on their feet. But neither of the two men even glanced down to see what was happening.

"You mean _fell_ off of it," Harry corrected, danger in his tone.

"I mean what I say," Draco snapped back. He shook his head. "If you really think she _fell_, Potter, you don't know her at all."

"And you do?" Harry threw back, hating the thought that it might be true.

Draco's hands tightened around his broom. _Yes_, he wanted to say, but couldn't. "I know women," he said instead. "And every bird is the same—all melodramatic bits of baggage who make every insignificant problem into the end of the world." His face was sardonic and superior, but the words 'insignificant problem' left a bad taste in his mouth. They were vague, and just harsh enough to be believable. It was better if the they thought she was only a phase, only a plaything like the rest. It was better if they believed he didn't care. It was easier. Safer.

The response had murder lighting in the other boy's eyes. The idea that Malfoy knew Hermione the way he _knew_ his whores had fury swirling in Harry's stomach. Draco may not have been intimate with her mind and heart, but he had never denied being intimate with her body. And that alone was condemnable.

Harry's hands tightened around the neck of his broom, urging it forward in increments, coming closer to Draco, blatantly threatening. "I told you to end things with her," he said through his teeth.

Draco smiled harshly. "I don't answer to you," he said, his voice just as low.

Harry nodded. "Right," he threw back, "you answer to daddy dearest, don't you?" He felt victory surge through him as he saw the other man's jaw work. "Well I wonder what the royal Lucius Malfoy would do if he found out his precious Death Eater-in-the-making was cavorting with a lowly mudblood."

The words had Draco smiling bitterly, had him acutely aware of the Mark seared into his arm. They thought he was merely a Death Eater-in-the-making_._ They thought he was insignificant, just another mask in the crowd.

He put on a placid smile. "I wonder," he agreed mildly.

"Maybe I should ask him," Harry threatened.

Draco slowly shrugged a languid shoulder. "Go ahead," he answered aloofly. "It's _her_ death warrant you'd be signing, not mine."

The words had Harry's grip on his broomstick squeezing painfully in frustration. "If he doesn't kill you then I will," he promised angrily. "I'll kill anyone who lays so much as a finger on Hermione."

Draco watched him with bland amusement. "Oh, I've laid far more than a finger on her, Potter," he assured him quietly.

Harry's eyes flashed. "You son of a bitch." He was urging his broom forward in an instant.

And then, all of a sudden, a flash of gold came between them, halting Harry in his tracks. It flitted closer until it was an arm's reach from either of them, breaking their gazes, then just as quickly fluttering away.

Their eyes clashed again, holding for one second, two. And then they were both zooming off after it.

"_And it seems the Seekers have found the Snitch and are in pursuit!"_

The stadium was in an uproar, everyone's focus on the two boys as they sped through the air. But the Seekers didn't hear the crowd or feel the pressure. They followed the Snitch as it whirled from one side of the stadium to the other, each trying to defeat the other—each feeling like there was far more than a quidditch match at stake.

"There are hundreds of chits in this school," Harry ground out. They were shoulder-to-shoulder, and going lightning-fast. "You could shag any of them."

"But then I wouldn't have the added pleasure of _pissing you off_." Draco urged his broom faster, but the tiny ball eluded his hand just as he was about to snag it.

Harry bumped Draco's shoulder hard, reaching further. "She isn't a toy! She's not yours to play with!"

Draco responded by knocking back. "She isn't yours, either, Potter," he yelled into the wind. "If Granger had wanted it over she could have ended it. She never did."

"Because you've seduced her!" Harry threw back. "She's blinded by—"

The snitch switched directions, cutting him off before he could say the dreaded word. He surged forward, but the white-haired boy quickly closed the gap.

"Admit it, Potter," he jeered. "You're jealous. You want her for yourself."

Harry's eyes narrowed at the words. A part of it was true. He wanted Hermione back, the one he used to know, the one he was sure of. And he wanted her away from Malfoy, whatever the cost.

He focused on the Snitch, dragging his broom forward, reaching out. "You think you've won. But you'll never have her."

The golden ball suddenly changed directions, taking a nosedive. Both Seekers followed, plunging towards the ground without blinking an eye.

Draco smiled, bringing up speed, not even caring that he was headed straight for solid earth. "I could have her any time I want," he said back mockingly.

Harry's gaze was bright with fury, but he didn't take it off the gleam of gold. "Whatever spell you've cast over her will be broken once she's away from you," he said through his teeth. "I just thank God she's going home. She'll be safe and sound—safe from_ you_!"

The words were like a jolt of electricity. They had Draco's gaze suddenly snapping away from the Snitch to the man at his side. And then suddenly he was crashing into the ground, rolling, his broom flying out from under him, his body colliding violently with Harry's as it skidded to a halt on the pitch.

Snow soaked his red uniform, and there was pain flashed on the right side of his body, but Harry didn't care. Because locked in his iron grip was the tiny elusive orb.

The crowd went wild as he stood and held the thing victoriously over his head. His smug emerald eyes met Draco's grey ones, piercing and threatening and reveling in the defeat. But his enemy didn't look angry, or disappointed, or even resentful. Instead, he looked… troubled. He looked _stunned_.

Harry had expected insults, profanities, threats. He had expected anything but what came out of Malfoy's mouth next.

"She's going home?"

Draco's voice was dazed, mystified, as if he couldn't understand the words, as if they were some other language that didn't quite make sense. There was a line between his brows, and his silver eyes were frowning, as if trying to solve a puzzle in the back of his mind.

Harry's eyes narrowed at the strange and unexpected question, but before he could dig further, he was surrounded by his teammates and dragged away.

Draco watched with dark eyes as the crowd carried Potter off. Those who saw his dismayed frown might've said it was the frustration of losing the game, or maybe even pain from hitting the ground. No one would have guessed that a certain insufferable, solemn-eyed somebody was the real reason behind his furrowed brows.

* * *

Hermione's tired eyes slowly scanned the black letters on the page. She was reaching the final chapters of the Slytherin biography, and, like the ones that had come before, they were providing little comfort.

All of a sudden, she felt eyes on her, bright and intent, making her shiver. Slowly, she looked up from her book to find Draco standing in the doorway. His dark green quidditch robes were wet and covered in dirt, and his white-blonde hair was damp and falling over his silver eyes. Those eyes were intense as they watched her—haunted, as if they held the weight of the world.

After one silent moment, she let her eyes lower back to the ink-filled pages, willing herself to go on, willing them to read.

Draco watched her, his grey eyes dark. He had been certain that she would defy her father and go with her friends to the Weasley family home. He had been sure that after everything she would know to stay away. He had been sure she would want to protect herself. But as he looked at her now, her eyes turned down solemnly, he realized suddenly that he had been wrong. He had been naïve. Because the girl before him looked numb again. She looked like she didn't care.

"You're going home for Christmas," he said, his voice low. It wasn't a question.

Hermione silently turned a page. She didn't raise her eyes. "Yes," she replied softly. "I told you I would."

Draco's jaw clenched. His hands fisted at his side. "I thought you would go to Weasley's place. I thought you would change your mind."

Hermione could feel the intensity of his eyes, his words—felt it burn her heart, felt it drain her until she was empty. Restless, she slowly closed the book and stood from the bed. "It's not up to me," she told him, turning her back, making up the bed sheets. Her heart was heavy; it was like an anvil inside of her chest. "You're not the only one with responsibilities," she whispered.

Draco swore under his breath. "Are you out of your mind?" he asked, his voice passionate. He stepped closer to her, and she moved away, busying herself with tidying the room. His outstretched hands clenched into fists as he searched past the frustration for patience. "How could you even _think _to go back there," he demanded quietly once he'd found it. "How could you let that bastard anywhere near you?" She ignored him, continuing to silently pick things up from the ground. "Answer me!" he commanded harshly.

It was a long time before she spoke. "You did what you had to do," she told him finally, her voice wary as she slowly folded a grey school sweater. "Now it's my turn to do the same."

Draco's hands were suddenly gripping her shoulders, roughly turning her to face him. "But you don't have to do it. You don't have to do anything, Hermione!" He was shaking her, and she let him, her body limp and tired in his grasp. His voice was rising, taking on the tone of anger, but it was really fear—really _desperation_—behind the words.

Hermione slowly tilted her head. "You of all people should understand," she spoke softly. "I don't have a choice."

Draco shook his head, frightened by the defeat, the numb acceptance in her tone. She _did _have a choice. Couldn't she see that? If she went with her friends, there was nothing her father could do. He had no magic to hunt her down with, no supernatural power—no power at all except the power she gave him. He could never find them, not even if he tried. So why was she going back? Why was she putting her herself at risk? Why didn't she care?

"This isn't the same thing," he tried to make her see. But she only smiled sadly, serenely, causing his lip to curl angrily, causing him to violently, exasperatedly shake his head. "I _don't _understand," he spat. "I'll _never_ understand." He released her and stormed out, visions of the past blending with the possibilities of the future. The pictures had him so blinded, so upset, that he nearly collided with another figure, one that was entering as he exited.

It was Harry Potter, still robed in his quidditch garb, his broom held tightly in one hand. His emerald eyes were narrowed and looking speculatively from behind his glasses, first to Draco, then to Hermione, then back again. "What's going on?" he asked when no one spoke. There was a tense pause. "_What_ don't you understand, Malfoy?"

Draco looked away, his jaw clenched. "Tell him, Granger," he said through his teeth. "See if _he _understands..."

Harry turned to his friend, arms crossed. "Hermione?"

Hermione brought a hand to her temple, rubbing a subtle ache there. "It's nothing," she told him, her voice weary and subdued. She sighed when Harry's brows furrowed deeper. "We're just not seeing eye to eye on some things, is all."

Draco nodded, jaw tight. "That's one way of putting it," he agreed through his teeth.

"And how would you put it?" Harry asked, arms crossing uncomfortably.

Draco smiled over tightly gritted teeth. "I wouldn't," he forced himself to say easily. "What would be the point?" His silver eyes snapped back to Hermione's. "It's not like it's a matter of life and death," he added crisply, and hidden behind the sardonic smile and indifferent tone was an accusation.

"Then let's not say any more about it," Hermione said with a soft smile. "We'll just… agree to leave it alone."

Draco laughed harshly under his breath. She wanted him to leave it alone—leave _her _alone—wanted him to let her drown, let her throw her life away again.

And that just _wasn't_ going to happen.

"We'll agree to disagree," he told her tightly. "Nothing more and nothing less."

Silently, Hermione sighed. She'd somehow known it wouldn't be that easy. Draco was had spent a lifetime getting what he wanted. Every interaction she'd ever had with him had taught her he wasn't the kind to give even an inch.

She brought a weary hand to her aching forehead. "Let him pass, Harry," she said weakly, turning away. "I'm sure there's somewhere he'd rather be."

Harry cautiously took one stiff step to the side. He still wasn't sure what was unfolding before his eyes. They were speaking plainly enough—so why then did it feel like they communicating in code?

"Quite the contrary, actually," Draco said with his easy smirk. He couldn't stop the turning up of lips from tightening with resentment. "However, I know better than to stay where I'm not wanted," he went on with that edgy smile. "And so, _kind sir_, I bid you adieu." He didn't acknowledge Hermione, only sent her one last dark look over his shoulder before turning and briskly striding out.

Harry watched his enemy go, unsure of what exactly he'd walked in on. It had seemed too urgent, too _intense_, to just be a spat between roommates or even between student officials. _I don't understand… I'll never understand. _The words had sounded almost desperate, as if the Head Boy had been pleading with Hermione.

Harry's brows furrowed. Malfoy _pleading_ with Hermione? It didn't make any sense. _Malfoy_ was the one in control. He was the one with power over Hermione, not the other way around. _She _was under _his _thumb… right?

Draco Malfoy didn't—_couldn't_—actually _care_ about Hermione, could he? _He_ couldn't be the one captivated by _her_…

Involuntarily, Harry remembered the tense look on Malfoy's face as the two had danced on Halloween. He remembered all the times he'd seen him lurking in the shadows, watching Hermione without her ever knowing. He remembered the sudden rivalry between Draco and Brandon, how it had culminated in the latter walking away from Hermione with a swollen face.

Was it more than just an act? Could it be that in the process of seducing Hermione, _she_ had somehow unintentionally seduced _him_? Could it be that the dove's delicate innocence had melted the cold heart and warmed the cold blood of the snake?

Harry had to admit it wasn't the first time the thought had crossed his mind. He'd seen all the signs, taken in all the possibilities, but he'd been quick to dismiss the foreign ideas. But the questions were back again now, haunting him, tormenting him, until they were so clear in his mind that they were impossible to ignore. Could it be that that night on the balcony all those months ago had not only bonded Hermione to Malfoy, but Malfoy to Hermione? Could it be that he was just as attached to her as she was to him? Could the heartless Draco Malfoy have feelings, _true _feelings, for Harry's friend?

Would it matter if he did? Would it change anything?

Harry watched the weary way Hermione tucked one droopy curl behind her ear. No, he decided solemnly. It would only make things worse.

* * *

Hermione didn't pack her trunk until the morning she was supposed to leave. Silently, she folded her clothes and piled them neatly into the case, listening as the winter wind whipped against the windows. There was no anxiety, no apprehension, no pain—only a numbing acceptance that faded every feeling and fear.

Ron helped her load her luggage onto the Hogwarts Express, forcing himself to smile over gritted teeth. She was totally subdued again, silent and calm. He shared dark looks with Harry and Ginny, who were both thinking his same thoughts and trying to fight off their dismay.

How could they take care of her if they weren't there with her, watching her, protecting her? How could they help her from so far away?

They were relieved when she followed them into an empty compartment instead of going to sit in the Head Boy & Girl box at the front of the train. She slowly lowered onto the seat beside Ginny, silently letting her link their arms and lace together their hands. The three talked quietly amongst themselves, but Hermione didn't so much as say a single word the whole way. Her mind was lost in that faraway place where the wind was calm, the water was serene, and the sky was blank.

The ride seemed to last for hours but was over too quickly. All four dreaded getting off the train—each wondering what would happen once they parted ways.

The Express finally came to a stop, and the friends filed out of their compartment and off of the train. Mrs. Weasley was there to greet them, opening her arms to give them each one of her motherly hugs.

"Oh, Hermione, dear, we were all so happy to hear that you're feeling better," she gushed, wrapping the thinner girl up in her arms.

Hermione didn't say anything, didn't smile, just held tight to her best friend's mum, the only real mother she'd ever known.

"And we were so sorry to hear you're not coming for Christmas this time around," the older woman went on. Hermione nodded. She was sorry, too. "Not to worry, though, dear," Molly Weasley continued, gently pulling away to pick a large paper bag up from its place on the ground. "This is for you."

Hermione looked at the gift before reaching out and taking it. This bag was one of exactly four presents that she would receive for the holidays—one from Mrs. Weasley and one from each of her closest friends. "Thank you," she replied softly, smiling sadly. She felt like crying, but her brown eyes were painfully dry. No tears came.

"Of course, dearie," Molly said with a warm smile. "But remember to save it for Christmas. No peeking."

Hermione nodded. "No peeking," she promised quietly.

"There's a good girl." Mrs. Weasley turned to the others. "Are you three ready?" she asked them expectantly.

They nodded, looking uncertainly at Hermione. Ginny was the first to come forward and hug her goodbye. "I'll owl you," she said, squeezing her close, speaking into her hair. "And I'll save you a piece of chocolate caramel cream pie." After long moments of silence, she reluctantly released her, stepping back, wishing she could drag the brown-eyed girl along.

The boys stepped forward then, each kissing Hermione's forehead. "We'll be checking in," Ron assured her seriously.

Hermione nodded, though she knew it wouldn't make a difference.

"And if you need anything—" Harry added meaningfully, "anything at all—we'll come."

Hermione nodded again, though she knew that no matter how badly she needed them, she would never, _never _ask for their help.

The boys hugged her again before hesitantly moving away. Hermione could tell that they were uncomfortable leaving her. "I'll see you soon," she reassured them. The words came out sad and silent. They did nothing but worry her friends further.

"Yeah," Harry said, nodding to himself. "See you soon."

Mrs. Weasley smiled and began to usher them away. "Oh, and Happy Christmas, Hermione dear!" she called over her shoulder.

Hermione held up a hand, smiling softly. She watched them until they disappeared, before turning to look for her own source of transportation. She walked the platform, searching halfheartedly for the bright brown eyes she hadn't seen since summer.

"There you are," came the familiar voice, the one that whispered warmly in her nightmares. At once, she was being swept into her father's embrace, his thick arms going around her, suffocating her thin frame. She dutifully rested one fatigued hand on his back, but the other one couldn't muster the will or strength to leave her side. "I missed you, sweeting," he breathed into her hair with relief.

She said nothing, _felt_ nothing. She was like a corpse in his arms, completely at peace.

But then, just as easily as he had pulled her close, he held her away. The sighing affection instantly darkened and the warmth in his eyes began to sizzle. "I've been here for half an hour, Hermione," he informed her sternly. His voice was an eerie mixture of aggravation and adoration as he spoke. "You know I can't take it when you keep me waiting."

"I'm sorry," she said automatically.

The older man shook his head, tisked her with a cluck of his tongue. "You're always apologizing to me, sweeting. But if you ever really meant it, you'd stop doing things you'll only be sorry for."

"I can't control the speed of the train," Hermione reminded him quietly. "I got here as soon as I could."

The words had her father's smile freezing on his face. "Are you arguing with me, Hermione?" he asked her, tense. "Because you know I don't like it when you argue with me."

"I'm sorry," she said again.

Another moment went by, still and stern. And then he was relenting, pulling her to him again. "Oh, I know you are, sweeting," he told her endearingly. "And I know you'll find some way to make it up t me. You always do."

Hermione looked away and followed her father to his car, loading her heavy trunk into the back seat with downcast eyes. She opened the passenger door—and then suddenly stopped. There was that feeling again, the one that had plagued her in the corridors—the one that had come over her in front of the bookstore in Hogsmeade. She turned, expecting to find empty space like all the times before. But this time her brown eyes clashed with dark silver.

Draco stood, stoic and cold, but his smoke-grey eyes were heated and desperate. _Don't get in the car_, they pleaded. _Don't do it. Just shut the door and walk away. _His mind was pleading with her, begging her to change her mind.

Hermione smiled sadly.

_Why is it we don't have a choice?_

Turning her back, she silently climbed into the car. She could feel Draco's gaze stay on her, but she didn't look back, didn't so much as blink as her father drove her away.

* * *

Her father's cell phone rang on the ride home, saving Hermione from any conversation that might have taken place.

"Granger here," he greeted, his professional tone a direct contrast to the heated way he spoke to his daughter. He listened for a moment, his brows creasing. "Yes, I know her," he said after a while. "She's my wife." Hermione chanced a glance at her father, but his narrowed eyes stayed on the road. "What do you mean? What sort of _problem_, exactly?" he asked. There was another long pause. "You have _got_ to be kidding me," he snapped into the silence. He looked to the side, his teeth grinding. "There's no other way? I don't want to have to leave my daughter alone." Another pause. And then a deep, perturbed sigh. "Fine, fine. I'll get the first plane out." He shook his head, obviously annoyed. The person on the other end of the line would never know, would never even _suspect_ that he would take that frustration out on his daughter. "No, no, thank _you_," he said sarcastically, and then flipped the phone down, shutting it with a snap, ending the call. He glanced at Hermione, forced a warm and patient smile. "Brilliant," he declared tightly. "Bloody, _bloody_ brilliant."

Hermione swallowed. She didn't look back. Instead, she stared straight ahead. "Who was it," she asked the older man dutifully.

He sighed. "An agent with the Canada Border Service. There's an issue with your mother's passport, and they won't let her clear customs until it's sorted out." He glanced to the side. "I'm going to have to fly out tonight and fix things."

"For how long?"

Her father shook his head. "He wasn't very forthcoming about the problem," he said resentfully. "I could be gone until after Christmas or I could be back by tomorrow."

Hermione didn't dare smile. She didn't dare feel relieved.

She stayed silent, not wanting the conversation to go on further. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her father's thick hand slowly raise, suddenly felt his palm cup the back of her head. He massaged his fingers through her curly brown hair. "You won't be too lonely if I leave you by yourself for a few days?" he asked, his eyes on the road, but his voice slick affection.

Hermione didn't answer. She couldn't say what he wanted her to say and bear it; couldn't say the truth because she knew _he _couldn't bear it. And when things were unbearable for him, he made sure to unleash some of the burden onto her.

"You'll miss me," he asserted for her when she didn't speak. He withdrew his hand, let it rejoin the other on the steering wheel. "You'll miss me just like I'll miss you."

When they reached the house, Hermione retrieved her trunk from the back seat and dragged it silently up the steps. She walked slowly up the staircase to her room, waiting for her father to stop her. She felt a sigh of relief well up inside when he didn't, but she swallowed it down before it could pass through her lips. With her luck, he would hear it and use it against her. He had the ears and eyes of hawk—at least when it came to finding an excuse to lose control.

She sat in her room, completely still, waiting—for what exactly, she wasn't sure. The hours rolled by, and she kept her place on the bed. Maybe if she didn't speak, didn't move, he would leave without bothering her. Maybe if she just played dead, he would go away.

"Hermione!" she heard his expectant voice call just as the sun disappeared under the horizon. "Sweeting, come down here, please."

She followed the voice with careful steps. Her father was waiting at the bottom of the staircase, standing by the door, a rolling suitcase at his feet. "I'm leaving now," he informed her as she reached the final step. "I hope you'll keep everything in order until I get back." He looked her up and down. "You will, won't you?" he wanted to hear her say.

Hermione didn't react to the heated look in his gaze. "Yes," she answered dutifully.

"There's a good girl." He smiled. "Now come closer and give daddy a kiss goodbye."

From her place on the step, Hermione dutifully leaned forward, placing an uninspired peck against her father's bristly cheek.

But he was pulling her back to him just as she was drawing away. His wide, chapped lips attached to her soft ones, pressing so hard that it should have hurt…

But it didn't. She couldn't feel anything. Not pain—not even shame.

Lifetimes passed before he finally pulled away. He reached up a hand, trying to straighten one particularly unruly curl. "You be a good girl while I'm gone," he commanded in that slickly loving voice. He looked from the ringlet to her eyes. "Tell me you will."

"I will."

"You will—what?" He looked expectant.

Hermione looked away. "I will be a good girl," she answered dutifully.

"That's what I like to hear." He turned his focus back to her hair, grasping the curl between his fingers, trying to smooth it out. "You know I can't stand the way you cast your spells over people." His jaw became tight, and his eyes fell to her lips. "Though God knows I fall prey to your bewitchment every day."

Hermione felt the dull ache of emptiness churn in her stomach. Though his face stayed close to hers, she kept her gaze away.

"I'll be back soon," he said, the words a promise. And then he backed up, leaning down to draw up the handle of his rolling suitcase before opening the door.

Hermione slowly stepped off the final stair, following him to the open doorway, watching as he made his way down the front steps. Her eyes were on him as he loaded his suitcase into the passenger seat, then as rounded the vehicle to get in on the other side. She stared as the car backed out of the driveway; as it turned into the street; as it faded into the distance, becoming smaller and smaller; as it disappeared from sight. She even stayed staring minutes after it had vanished, as if to assure herself that it wasn't coming back. And then she turned, moving to close the door behind her.

But something stopped her. Her eyes narrowed, and she searched the darkness. Was someone there watching her? She could feel that intense, familiar gaze again, could feel it on her, burning into her like a flame.

When she didn't find anyone, she shook her head. She was going mad.

Sighing, she turned and headed back inside, shutting the door behind her and turning off all the lights. She walked upstairs and crawled into her bed. Staring at the ceiling, she let her mind wander to that bright and brutal pair of metallic eyes.

* * *

"Where have you been, boy? It's already dark."

Draco dropped his bag on the floor with a sarcastic smile. "I didn't realize I had a curfew," he responded haughtily. "I never have before." He looked about the room, taking in his father's stiff stance. Narcissa was in the corner busily writing a letter, seemingly unaware that her son had arrived.

Lucius glared skeptically. "The train arrived earlier this afternoon," he pressed. "Why is it you're only walking through the door now? What have you been doing all this time?"

Draco looked away. He'd been in London. Too angry, too frightened to turn his back and walk away, he'd stalked after the little automobile that carried Hermione away from King's Cross. He'd watched as she'd unloaded her heavy trunk and dragged it up the stairs. He'd stared at her, unblinking, as she sat quietly on her bed in the tiny room on the second floor, had watched for what seemed like hours. He'd waited, silently daring her old man to try something—had had the sick feeling that for those few minutes they'd been hidden behind the door, the bastard had.

Draco hadn't left until he was sure her father had gone. And even then, he'd had a hard time pulling himself away.

"Well?" Lucius asked expectantly. "What were you doing?"

"Frolicking, father," Draco answered dryly.

The other man's gaze only narrowed further. "I am displeased," was his dubious response. He looked his son up and down before turning. "And apologize to your mother. She's been worried sick all day."

Draco raised a brow. "Has she?" he asked wryly, looking over at the woman in question. She had yet to so much as glance his way.

His father looked at him expectantly. Draco stepped forward until he towered over Narcissa. "I deeply regret that my absence so concerned you," he said gravely. His mother waved him away without looking up from her stationary, causing a small smile to form on Draco's face. Worried, indeed.

"Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some things I'd like to attend to." He looked from Narcissa to Lucius. His father had already turned his back to his son, his gaze returning to examine the piece of parchment in his hand.

"Fine," the older man said absently as his eyes scanned the page.

Draco smiled and backed away. He moved towards the grand staircase, walking up the steps to his chambers. Without shedding his shirt or shoes, he fell onto his bed. Staring at the ceiling, he let his mind wander to that dark and distant pair of russet eyes.

* * *

Hermione had thought that if she spent her days doing nothing, the minutes would somehow move more slowly. If keeping busy was what passed the time, shouldn't stillness have frozen it in place? The week before Christmas rolled by with uncharacteristic speed, however, and she found herself counting the hours, the minutes, the seconds until her father would come back home again.

Harry, Ron, and Ginny had provided her with a halfhearted distraction. They apparated to her house every chance they got—thinly veiled attempts at checking up on her. Still, even with friends all huddled around her, she found her mind drifting, numbed by thoughts of what she knew would lay ahead when they were gone and her father was in their place.

The boys could tell something was wrong—_very_ wrong. They longed to ask her what it was, but held the words back. They knew she wouldn't answer, knew it would cause her to close up even more. She would tell them in her own time. She couldn't hide forever... She _couldn't_ hide forever…

They repeated the words to themselves over and over in their minds, but it did little to soothe their growing anxiety. They were stuck in a time warp. The past was repeating itself. And they were as helpless to stop it now as they had been then.

Why was she fading away again? What had happened?

They had told themselves they would do things differently. They had sworn they would somehow keep her afloat, would fix things—would fix _her_—whatever it took_._ But just like the last time, they pressed for nothing. Like the last time, quiet encouragement and subtle protection was all they dared to provide. The memory of her broken form inside the infirmary bed was still fresh in their minds—and instead of inspiring them to speak out, it had them shutting up, had them careful not to push her, lest she go over the edge again, this time never to return.

December 24th came faster than anyone expected. The men both did their best to convince Hermione to come back to the Burrow for Christmas. "Mione, you can't even be sure your dad's even coming back tonight," Ron tried to reason with her. "You haven't heard anything from him. And you shouldn't be spending Christmas alone."

She only mutedly shook her head. "He's coming back," she whispered, somehow certain.

Ron sighed, his shoulder slumping before reluctantly lifting to take her in his arms. Harry followed when he was done, hugging her to him, holding her tight. "We'll see you tomorrow, then," he said, his hand rubbing her back. "We'll try to get here as early as possible."

Hermione nodded, knowing that no matter how early, it would be too late.

The boys moved away from her, preparing to disapparate, when suddenly Ron paused. "Oh, and Mione?"

Her tired gaze turned back to his. "Yes?"

A moment went by. "Happy Christmas," he said reluctantly.

Hermione smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Happy Christmas," she answered softly.

With a crack, her friends were gone, leaving her to face the night alone.

She stared at the place where they'd been standing only seconds before, suddenly wishing she had cared enough to go with them. She looked around the empty room with wary eyes. Slowly, she moved to the sofa, lowered herself onto it.

Now all she had to do was wait.

One hour went by, two. Three.

She sat completely still, not moving, not even blinking an eye.

The sun went down. Four hours. Five.

She heard the car pull in, heard the motor die. She didn't move.

She heard the car door slam shut, heard the heavy footsteps on the stairs. She heard the key turn in the lock, saw the doorknob twist. Still, she didn't move.

She watched the door open, watched the stocky man appear, suitcase dragging behind.

"Hermione!" he called, not noticing her there.

"I'm here."

He looked, and immediately his eyes were heated. He let the door shut behind him and let his bag sit forgotten on the ground. "Sweeting—darling…" He went to her, pulled her up into his arms. But her own arms stayed against her side. She was like a rag doll, limp and lifeless. Still, she didn't move. "Did you miss me?" he asked into her hair.

She paused for half a second before dully answering, "Yes."

His eyes narrowed. He jerked her away, his warm smile turning tense. "Why do you sound like you're lying, Hermione?" he asked sharply, his grip tightening, bruising her shoulders. "You know I like you to be a good girl. Good girls don't lie to their fathers..."

"I'm not lying," she said, her soft voice emotionless. Still, she didn't move.

"You're lying again," he knew. "I'll be angry if you keep this up. And neither of us likes me when I get upset." He let go of her shoulders with such force that she streamed backward, back onto the cushioned couch.

But she didn't move.

Her father's eyes narrowed into heated slits, at once loving and hating the lackluster way her brown eyes stared ahead. "You're always provoking me, Hermione," he accused quietly. "You're always pushing my buttons until you've shoved me right over the edge."

"I'm sorry," Hermione said to him—as she _always _said to him. But as always, it came too late.

"You don't look sorry, Hermione. I know the witch in you isn't." He looked her up and down with disguisedly wolfish eyes. "Stand up," he ordered. She obeyed—but he immediately shoved her back down onto the cushions. "I said _stand up_!" he annunciated, towering over her. Again, Hermione tried to rise, but the back of his clenched fist crashed hard across her temple, leaving her no choice but to fall back onto the couch. "Stand up, Hermione!" he commanded harshly one more time. This time she didn't move, and his hard knuckles backhanded her again.

Her wand was on the side table, not far from her reach. With one careful movement, she had it turned on him, her brown eyes looking dark—so like his mother's, so like his. He looked from her soft face to the hard wooden tip and smiled. "What are you going to do?" he asked her, unafraid. "Are you going to put a spell on me, witch?"

Hermione's hand was shaking. "Do it," she heard him goad. "Do it!" It was almost a plea, desperate and full of desire. "It doesn't matter, sweeting," he informed her. "I'm already cursed—you see to that every time you look my way. Every time you go against me, knowing how it gets my blood up. Every time you do those wicked things to me to get me so inflamed."

Hermione tried to think of a spell, a curse, tried to think of anything at all. But her mind was strangely blank. Her brain couldn't remember a single thing from school, from the last seven years of dedication to being the best.

"You can't do it," her father knew. "You don't even want to..."

Looming over her, he easily snatched the wand from her grasp.

And that's when she checked out. That moment, when he took her wand, her last defense, she let herself fade away.

She felt his body come over hers, pressing her back into the sofa cushions just like he had that very first time all those years ago. His heavy hand sailed hard across her face one more time, forcing her head to the side. Her gaze absently landed on the window, staring into the dark and distant sky. She could feel the tip of her wand jab into her right breast. He was stabbing her with it, she realized, stabbing her hard. "Do you feel the magic," she could hear him ask, his breathing harsh, his voice dripping with unnatural excitement. He stabbed her left breast, stabbed into her heart. "Do you feel it like I feel it?"

Hermione still didn't move, didn't answer. Her eyes were distant. She was far away.

She felt his weight pressing down on her. She felt her shirt being ripped open, buttons flying, disappearing from sight. She felt one large hand squeeze her breast, felt a slimy tongue slide against her neck. "Do you feel the magic?" she heard him repeat over and over in her ear. But the words were like an echo from deep inside a well.

Still, she didn't move. She was outside of her body, outside of this room, in that place she'd created all those years ago, that place where she couldn't be hurt, where she couldn't feel afraid.

A shadow played against the windowpane where Hermione's dull gaze stared. But she didn't really see, not past the glaze over her eyes; couldn't really _feel_, not the pain of her father's assault—and not the pair of intense silver eyes.

Suddenly, the weight was being lifted off of her. But she didn't move, didn't look. She lay perfectly still.

"I'm going to _murder_ you, you_ bastard_!" came a dangerous snarl from somewhere miles away. Still, she didn't move.

There was a scuffle. She could hear flesh pounding other flesh like elevator music in her mind. There was a groaning sound, and more swearing—but who or where or why didn't register.

Her eyes were dazed and distant. She couldn't see a thing. There was a light tickle against her mouth; a line of blood was sliding from her lips. But still, she didn't move. She didn't swipe it away.

"_Crucio!_" came the volatile voice. Light flashed briefly, but she was already blind.

Then there was screaming, agony echoing miles away. A few seconds went by, but as far as she knew, it was a century; there were no minutes or hours in her faraway place, just whiteness and silence and peace.

The screaming stopped, replaced by desperate sobbing. "Do you feel the _magic_?" asked the dark and dangerous voice, turning the old man's own words back on him.

Hermione could hear her father's sobs as if from behind a wall. Still, she didn't move.

"Touch her, come near her—even _look_ at her again—and I _will kill you_." The words were threatening and real. Whimpering was their only answer.

But Hermione didn't look. She didn't move.

Familiar grey eyes were suddenly above hers, familiar hands gently turning her face, desperately scanning over the damage. "Oh God. Baby... baby." A familiar voice resonated, desperate and strained.

She didn't answer, couldn't. Her mind was blank, completely blank. She felt more than heard his anguished groan as he took in the sight of her.

His hands cupped her face with infinite care, his thumb gently rubbing the blood, smearing it on her chin. "Okay, I've got you. I've got you." He carefully lifted her into his arms, cradling her like a child.

The world was suddenly turning and twisting. She could feel herself falling, though she felt the security of someone holding her, keeping her safe. All of a sudden, she was somewhere else, a place she couldn't recognize, a place she'd never been.

She was on the floor, the strong, familiar arms still around her. She looked up absently into desperate silver eyes.

"Hermione..." His hand frantically ran over her hair, her face. He was searching for her, trying to wake her, his urgent eyes trying to reach inside. "Hermione, speak to me. Say something."

Her pupils retracted, the haze beginning to clear just a bit. "Draco?" she whispered, looking up through uncertain eyes.

His arms tightened around her and his lips pressed against her head. "I'm here," he assured her passionately. "I've got you."

She blinked, focused.

The tears came then, streaming quickly, leaving trails down her face. Strong hands softly brushed them away. She felt herself being rocked slowly, comfortingly; felt arms pull her higher against a hard chest. She felt lips brush her temple, her hair; heard a voice whispering in her ear. "Shhh. I"ve got you_,_" it soothed. "I've got you. You're safe."

For the first time in a long time, she could believe it.

* * *

The morning of the 24th, Narcissa had her son summoned to her chambers.

Draco followed his mother's lady's maid down the long corridor, patiently staying a full step behind. Silent minutes passed before he was finally walking under the elaborate archway and into the salon that joined his father's bedchamber with his mother's. The house-elf continued over the threshold to her mistress's side, but Draco came to a halt in the open doorway, his hands in his pockets, one shoulder leaning against the frame.

"You rang?" he asked her mildly.

Narcissa sat at her dressing table in a thin silk robe, delicately sweeping a sheer sort of powder onto one defined cheekbone with a silver make-up brush. "I hope I don't need to remind you that the Emerald Ball is this evening."

Draco smiled blandly. "How could I forget?" The annual Christmas ball, hosted by the influential DaMonts at their historic family estate, was only the most extravagant and _exclusive_ event of the year. Only the bluest of the blue blood was invited—and, of course, the Malfoy name was at the top of the guest list year after year. Going to the celebration had been a family tradition since its inception generations before.

Narcissa reached for a container of perfume, spraying it lightly against her neck. When she was sufficiently spritzed, she replaced it on the table's surface and turned to the house elf, holding out an expectant hand. Dutifully, the creature handed her delicate pearl hairpins one by one. "You should start getting ready," she told her son, carefully pushing the tiny white beads into her hair. "We're leaving in a few hours, and I assume we'll be there late. Your father has business with Edward DaMont."

Draco's smile was tight and sarcastic. "Of course he does."

"Tisk tisk, Draco," his mother replied, observing herself in the mirror. "You shouldn't be so superior. It's important we keep up an approachable façade with your new position. The last thing we need is to scare our supporters away." She turned, a smile spreading. "The ball is also a perfect opportunity for you to announce your engagement to Pansy."

Draco crossed his arms. "I haven't announced it between the two of us yet," he told her dryly. "I hardly think it would be appropriate to inform the world before the bride."

Narcissa sighed and turned back to the mirror, petting one cold, sculpted brow. "You're stalling things with her," she observed coolly. "I could be very angry with you, you know."

"That would require you to _have _emotions, mother."

Narcissa only smiled at the sardonic tone. "You can't evade it forever, Draco," she warned him. "And the longer you wait, the worse it looks. You should have a thought to how your actions reflect on the Malfoy name."

Draco felt his jaw clench and his patience wane. "I do have a thought for it," he said through his teeth. "Countless, in fact."

"Then you should be doing what is best for us all."

Draco's hands fisted involuntarily. "I'll propose to Pansy if and when I _want _to propose to her. You're not going to badger me into rushing the process."

Narcissa sighed, but the indifferent smile stayed in place. "Fine," she told her son. "But it will have to happen sooner or later. You can't run around like a wild animal forever."

And then, still inspecting herself in the mirror, she waved Draco away.

He made a slight, sarcastic bow, then turned out of the room, waiting until the door clicked shut behind him to bring a tense hand to his eyes. Though Pansy had been the topic of conversation, _Hermione _was the woman who was plaguing his mind. He'd seen her father leave days before, knew the bastard hadn't yet returned. Draco had kept his eye out, just to make sure. He'd watched her every day since then, assuring himself that she wasn't hurt, that that bastard hadn't touched her or harmed her. Thank Merlin the man hadn't been home to do either.

But tonight Draco wouldn't be able to check on her. The damn Emerald Ball… he _had _to make an appearance. As a Malfoy, as the Heir, his absence would be noted. He would be missed. There was no way around it.

Would Hermione's father stay away tonight? He hoped so, but something inside of him told him the man would be back. And what could Draco do about it from the confines of DaMont Park? How would he even know if Hermione needed his help?

The morning went by. Draco dressed himself gradually, hoping that if he went slowly enough, time would stop.

It didn't though. Before the hour was out, he found himself in a sparkling silver ballroom, lost in a sea of emerald extravagance. Women were draped in their elegant gowns and glimmering jewels, all shining in white and shades of green. Men wore their finest robes, black velvets with silk cravats and platinum cufflinks—but, of course, even they had their subtle flares of viridian.

Luncheon was served late, and then the concert portion of the evening began, an operatic duet, a piano recital, and a dramatic reading among the performances. After that, the group divided, the women retreating to one room to socialize and the men retreating to another to gamble and smoke their cigars.

Draco sat silently puffing on his, but he didn't so much as glance at the card tables where the droll gentlemen played. He was quiet and serious, his eyes darkly watching the room, but his mind wondering what was going on in that white London house miles away.

One hour went by, two. Three.

Restless, Draco broke away from the waltzing couples and throngs of people talking over their glasses of Madeira to pace back and forth in a passageway overlooking the busy ballroom.

The sun went down. Four hours. Five.

"What are you pacing for?" came a familiar voice. Draco looked up to find Blaise, his dark dress robes giving him the appearance of an amused prince. "You look like a nervous wreck," his friend observed. "What's the matter?"

"I hate these parties," Draco said, running a hand through his hair. "So long and drawn out. And not a drop of real liquor in sight. I can't stand it."

"I can tell." Blaise's dark eyes narrowed. "It'll wind down soon enough," he told his friend. "Why? Do you have somewhere you need to be? Someone you're meeting up with?"

Draco easily read the skepticism, easily heard the knowing tone in Blaise's voice. It only aggravated him further. "You and your damn questions, Zabini," he ground out. "Why can't you even _try _for subtly?"

Blaise smiled, but it was humorless. "Why can't you," he countered. It earned him a resentful look from his friend, but he didn't really mind. His smile faded after a moment though, and his eyes grew serious. "She's in trouble, isn't she," he asked Draco quietly.

Draco paused, looking at Blaise with haunted eyes. "I don't know." And then, seriously, "Yes. She's in trouble."

The dark-eyed boy looked thoughtful, but said nothing.

Draco let out a breath. Moving to the wooden railing, he looked down at the people below.

"Most of them aren't half as perceptive as they believe themselves to be," Blaise said mildly, coming to stand beside him, swirling the deep red wine in his high-stemmed glass. "The rest are too distracted with themselves." He looked to his left, his dark eyes contemplating his friend. "I'm the only one who noticed you weren't down there..."

Draco's eyes narrowed speculatively. "Aren't you supposed to be convincing me _not _to go? You know… naming off all the reasons why it's wrong, warning me that I'm getting in over my head."

"You're already in over your head, mate," Blaise answered dryly. "You have been for a while." He looked back down at the room below, taking a sip of his drink. "Eventually they _will _find out." He glanced over at his friend. "But you have a responsibility to more than just them. I understand that."

Draco looked to his right, almost not believing what he was hearing. "So... if they ask where I am…?"

"They won't ask," Blaise assured him with a smile and another sip of wine. "Most of them are too afraid now to even say your name."

"And the ones who aren't?"

"The ones who aren't are smart enough not to question you." He looked at his friend mildly. "At least where a petty Christmas party is concerned."

Draco swallowed, his silver eyes locking meaningfully, gratefully with Blaise's dark ones, letting them say _thank you _where his voice failed.

Blaise nodded, understanding. "Go," he said, waving Draco off. "You'll have a few hours, at least."

He wouldn't need a few hours. All he needed was a few minutes—just long enough to see for himself that she was okay. And then he'd return home… or to the ball, even. All he needed was to make sure...

With a whispered word, Draco was standing outside of Hermione's house. Slowly, he stepped up the stairs. His eyes looked through the window that sat high beside the door—and widened immediately at the atrocity they found.

Hermione's frail form was pinned under her father's heavy one, her button-down shirt ripped open, leaving her white skin open to his assault. He was stabbing her, kissing her. Her head was turned away, and though her honey-brown eyes were staring straight into his through the window, he knew she didn't see him, knew she was far away.

He was instantly inside the building.

The sick fuck was speaking to her, the words coming out rough and excited. They entered his head, echoing nastily inside. _Do you feel the magic… do you feel the magic…_

And he saw red.

But this wasn't like the last time, when he'd been helpless to do anything but stand and watch. This wasn't a memory; this was here and now! Insane fury had him storming forward. He grabbed the ogre up, threw him off Hermione with the strength of ten men. "I'm going to _murder_ you, you_ bastard!_" The words were a promise.

He began to beat the man, violently, without restraint. The piece of scum had the nerve to try and fight back.

It only made Draco angrier, only made him hit harder.

It wasn't long before the piece of shit realized he wouldn't—couldn't—win. He tried to crawl away—was begging for mercy. But Draco wasn't feeling sympathetic. Not at all.

He pointed his wand. "_Crucio!_" He had never used the spell on a human being before, but he felt no pangs of conscience—did not hesitate for even a second. "Do you feel the _magic_?" he asked, his voice like venom, watching with a tight jaw as the bastard screamed and writhed in pain.

No, he wasn't sorry. There wasn't an ounce of regret. The man's screams were like music to Draco's ears, feeding the vengeful demon that had taken over his body.

He let a moment go by, two, before forcing himself stop. He came forward, drew Hermione's father up by his thick throat. "Touch her, come near her—even look at her again—and I _will kill you_." The rat whimpered pathetically, tried to gasp for air. Draco shook his head, threw him back down hard before rushing to Hermione.

She was lying still on her back across the sofa, her arms straight at her sides, her face turned away. She hadn't moved, hadn't even looked at him. Fear mobilized him, and he came over her, taking her battered face into his hands. "Oh God. Baby... baby…" Her temple was bruised, her cheek was cracked and bleeding. Her bottom lip was split and swollen.

She didn't answer, but it was obvious the damage was done. Her dark brown eyes stared blankly into his. There was blood against her mouth and high against her cheek, causing the fist around his heart to grip so tight that it was painful. Gently, Draco rubbed the line with the pad of his thumb. Red smeared across her skin, stained.

He shut his eyes tight before opening them again, swallowing. Carefully, he took her into his arms. "Okay, I've got you," he breathed, assuring himself. "I've got you." He shoved one hand into his pocket, taking hold of the tiny sugar spoon just long enough to transport them, then drawing his fingers out again.

The entrance hall of Malfoy Manor was empty and cold, as if winter air had somehow swept in from underneath the heavy double doors. Candlelit chandeliers gave the darkness a subtle glow, and Draco's gaze scoured her vacant face in the dim gold light. He was on the cool floor, holding her in his arms. "Hermione..." His hands were smoothing over her cheek, her temple, her hair, his eyes searching hers, desperate for a response that didn't come. "Hermione, speak to me. Say something."

Moments passed. Hermione's glassy eyes shifted then, slowly circling from right to left before flickering uncertainly back to his. He watched her brows furrow slightly, watched something like confusion light in the dark depths of her eyes. "Draco?" she asked, as if she thought he might be a dream.

He pressed his lips against her forehead, breathed a silent sigh of relief. "I'm here." He felt her blood drying on his hands. "I've got you," he assured them both.

The words, the feel of his arms around her, brought her back. Tears began to waterfall, streaming freely and silently down her face. Draco held her tight, rocked her slowly, trying to calm himself as much as her. The need for vengeance was still pumping like poison through his veins. He let his lips touch her temple, where he could see a vicious bruise already forming in the muted light. "Shhh. I've got you," he tried to soothe. "I've got you. You're safe."

He felt warm liquid against his neck, making his heart burn, causing his jaw to clench tight. Whether they were tears or drops of blood, he wasn't sure.

Somehow he had _known _it would be tonight. Somehow, he had felt it. So much for 'Happy Christmas_,_' he thought bitterly to himself. Looking to the ceiling, he cursed her father, cursed himself, cursed Fate…

Church bells sounded from somewhere far away. The distant echo rang like laughter, a merciless answer from the angels above.


	16. Without Walls

_Saving You Summary—DMHG. Hermione Granger has a secret, one that's literally killing her: she has been suffering extreme abuse at the hands of her father. Who will come to her rescue? What if the only one who can is Draco Malfoy? Rated M for sexual content (including rape), suicide ideation, and violence._

_Disclaimer—Most of the characters and a lot of the setting belong to J.K. Rowling. The rest is mine._

A/N: Last updated Apr. 2, 2011.

* * *

**:::Without Walls:::**

Draco carried Hermione up the grand staircase and down the vast candlelit corridors to his chambers. Carefully, he laid her out on his pristinely made bed, then turned, heading to the majestic washroom that was through a nearby mahogany door. He returned a moment later with a damp cloth. Seating himself on the bed, he leaned over her, gently dabbing her bruised face, cleaning the blood away. Her left cheek and bottom lip were swollen, and black and blue was already starting to color her skin.

Though there should have been pain, Hermione didn't so much as wince. In her downcast eyes he saw only wariness and the faded remnants of shame.

Swallowing, his gaze fell to her uncovered torso, his stormy eyes taking her in. She brought her shaking hands up to shield herself from his view.

"Why are you trying to hide?" he asked, jaw tight. "I've already seen all of you."

She swallowed. "There are bruises…"

Draco placed the cloth on the bed beside him, took her hands in his, held them away. He looked from her averted eyes back to her chest. He could immediately see the harsh bluish marks forming there, darkening her porcelain skin.

He swore, shot up off the bed, started to pace. He would kill that _sick fuck _for touching her. He would rip him into pieces! He would—

"It doesn't matter, Draco."

Hermione's soft, sad, reassuring voice stopped the torrent. Draco looked at her, his silver eyes bright. He walked to her with purposeful strides, sitting himself on the bed beside her, taking her by the shoulders. She had dragged the dark duvet up over her breasts, too reluctant to let him look again. "Yes, it does," he told her firmly. She only looked away. Draco took her chin in his hand, turning her face back to his. "It _does_," he insisted. His metallic eyes reached into her dark brown ones. And then he shook his head, looked away. When he spoke next, his hands were in his lap. His gaze was down and his voice was as quiet and solemn as the grave…

"I told you not to go." The words weren't accusing. They were haunted—looming, lingering in the silence once they were spoken, thick and dark, like fog in the night sky. They were something else, too, some other adjective… filled with some other emotion that neither of them wanted to name.

"I didn't have a choice," was her numbing reply.

The words had Draco up in an instant, had him pacing back and forth, the tempest raging once again. They were like fuel on simmering flames, and he had to take a calming breath. The last thing she needed was anger and accusations. The last thing she needed was to be afraid of him, too.

"What if I hadn't gotten there in time?" he asked her, his voice ragged, his eyes strained and intense. "God, Hermione, I won't always be able to save you! One day I'll be too late." He ran a tortured hand through his white-blond hair. "I was almost too late today…"

"It doesn't matter," she whispered again, only this time she was staring straight into his eyes. "It never mattered."

The words, the voice, that look in her eyes—they frightened Draco, rocked him to the core. He came back to her, taking her cold hands in his. "You can't believe that." His voice was low. Why was she saying these things? _Why did she sound like she believed them?_ Why was she looking at him with dark, dull eyes—eyes like the ones he remembered from all those months before, the ones he had examined through the compartment window on the Hogwarts Express…

He had never seen her, truly _seen _her, before that day. He remembered it now—that moment her wary gaze had pierced through him like an arrow. Her curls had been soaked and stringy with rainwater. Her wet clothes had been clinging to her wisp of a body, and her thin hands had been folded resignedly in her lap. Her smile had been faint, wistfully curved upward with all the solemnity of prophet, and her eyes had watched him with mysteries in their dark depths. They were eyes that had seemed to reach beyond past, present, and future, eyes that had looked as if they'd known all the world's secrets—eyes that had looked as if they knew too much.

It had been those lightless eyes that had first drawn him in—and seeing them now haunted him even more then they had then. She was _her _again, that mysterious girl from the train, the one he'd so badly wanted to know, the one he'd so badly wanted to save.

And he _had_ saved her—or, at least, he'd _thought_ he had. But it seemed now like that girl had never really gone. It appeared that she had lingered like a shadow, hidden in the cloak of night where she wasn't needed, but always clinging, always waiting to follow Hermione back into the cruel light. If only she could see that she didn't _have_ to go back there. She could stay safe under the stars, under the cradling cloak of twilight, away from the merciless break of day. What duty did she owe to a harsh sun that only beat down upon her? Why did she insist on bringing herself where she'd only be burned?

She had faded into nothingness again, had let the shadow-girl take over her, until she was Hermione and Hermione was the shadow—protected, unaffected, unscathed by the ruthless rays of sun. Why did she insist on marching on into the horizon, into a sunrise that would singe and scorch until there was nothing left of her but ash? Didn't she know how much her life was worth? Didn't she see how _precious _she was—to the world, to her friends… to _him_.

No, he realized as he watched her downcast eyes. This girl saw nothing, _felt_ nothing. She was merely a shadow, cast by flames, the creation of an unforgiving sun.

And suddenly, Draco was filled with purpose.

Slowly, gently, he lowered her back further onto the pillows, until she had no choice but to raise those haunting eyes to his. He took up his wand, his gaze resolute—held the tip whisper-soft against her neck.

"Wha-what are you doing?" she stammered uncertainly.

"Taking away the armor," he told her, determined. "Making you see the truth."

Her eyes narrowed at that, puzzled, not understanding—then widened as she realized what he meant to do. "No, Draco. Don't," she pleaded softly.

His firm hand came up to cup her cheek. "You were right that day," he told her. "We _have _passed this point." He tucked one smooth spiral behind her ear. "Why are there still walls between us?"

The familiar words caused her breathing to quicken, caused the panic to take hold in her eyes. "You said it yourself," she tried to reason desperately. "Those walls have to be there." She shook her head, the fear reaching deep. "They will always be there."

Draco could hear the panic, understood it more than she knew. But he wasn't going to let her go on believing that she was nothing. Not when she was _everything _to him, despite the past—or maybe even because of it.

"No, Hermione," he told her seriously, his finger lightly tracing down one bruised cheekbone. "They're coming down tonight." Another pause. "I have to show you…"

_That you're beautiful… That you deserve the world, despite what that monster told you… despite what he did to you… That I would have given you that world, if only things had been different…_

"Let me show you…"

With a whispered word, light sprang from his wand. Hermione immediately turned, trying to wrench herself away, hiding her face, clutching the blanket against her body.

He kept his steadying hands on her. "Look at me," he commanded quietly.

Her voice failed her. She shook her head.

Draco gently let his palms run over her arms. For the first time, he felt the heavy scars that he'd seen all those weeks ago in the infirmary. His fingertips brushed down, softly running over the ridges and valleys that rose and fell on her unconcealed skin. But he wasn't disgusted. No, the only feeling that consumed him was regret. He had been her enemy for so long, completely indifferent to her suffering—superiorly ignorant to the idea that she even _could_ suffer. With royal nonchalance, he had dismissed her from his mind entirely—had hardly cared enough to spare her a thought.

And these scars were the proof that she'd paid the price for his apathy…

Hermione flinched at his touch, tensed. She began to shake. But he didn't stop his tender exploration. "Look at me," he commanded again, his hands running softly over her wrists, her forearms, her elbows. Another moment… "Look at me, Hermione."

The sound of her name on his lips, so firm and still so pleading, had her eyes wanting to obey of their own accord. But she paused. How could she let Draco see her like this? How could she let him see her scars? Her shame? Her failure?

Draco could read her thoughts, could almost hear them in his mind. Determinedly, he shoved his left sleeve up to his elbow. His pale skin showed no sign of the Dark Mark; like hers, it had been concealed to prevent discovery. His gaze sharp on her, he held the wand against his skin.

The walls were coming down tonight. Every last one of them…

With a whispered word, a green light faded against his arm. The Mark suddenly appeared, black and ugly on his skin. He looked at it briefly, bitterness making him grind his teeth. But purpose filled him, and he grabbed her hand anyway, running it carefully over the dreaded brand.

Hermione could feel the coarseness against his skin, and, with furrowed brows, she turned to see what it was. Her eyes saddened at the black they found there.

Tense moments went by. "We all have scars," he said through his teeth.

Hermione looked at the Mark, assessed it with gentle eyes—and in the process somehow forgot her own unconcealed skin. She had heard it was painful, that it felt like a thousand poisoned knives stabbing straight through the bone. Had it hurt him that way? Tender regret filled her as her fingers softly traced the ugly skull, the snake within.

"Will you look at me?" he asked her quietly again.

Hermione swallowed. A moment passed. And then she slowly brought her eyes to his.

There was a line, clean and straight down one delicate cheekbone. Draco could see the burns running down her neck and over her shoulder, disappearing behind the blanket. His eyes came to hers, and he could read the fear. He felt it, too—because for the first time, he was vulnerable. For the first time, he was as defenseless as she was.

Draco shook his head, leaned down, brushing his warm lips against hers. The kiss was soft, softer than any he'd ever given her. He was reassuring her, she knew. He was telling her that she wasn't alone. That she wouldn't be hurt. That she needn't be afraid.

Draco moved his lips from hers to gently press them against her nose, her darkened cheek, her bruised temple, her hair. He made no attempt to move fast. There was no rush. He kept his hands and lips above her neck, touching her face, her throat, stroking and soothing the scars that rested there.

"The first time, your hair was straightened and your skin was concealed," Draco said, his breath brushing her ear. "This time there's nothing between us. There's nothing to hide behind. Only the real you and the real me—without walls."

Hermione moaned as his mouth met hers again, his tongue softly probing past her lips to mate slowly, sensually with hers. Her breath caught at the first feel of his hands against her body. A fleeting insecurity returned, passing through her—but it soon melted away, replaced by the warm pleasure of his touch on her skin.

His body was over hers, pressing down softly. She should have been frightened, but the weight was pleasant, familiar—so unlike the heavy pressure her father's body used to trap her down. Draco's power over her was just as consuming, but it was _contained_. And though she _was _trapped, it was a confinement she never wanted to escape.

She felt Draco's hands pull the blanket out from between them. He moved his mouth down, the feeling warm against her chin, her neck. His lips tenderly rubbed the burns along her throat, warming her, making her feel lightheaded. She should have been panicked. He was touching her scars, her pain. But strangely, she wasn't afraid. His lips were soothing the fear, kissing the hurt away. All of a sudden, the pain was in the past. This was the present, and she was _safe_...

The backs of Draco's fingers brushed the swell of one breast, the whisper of a touch affecting her more than any other ever had. His lips pressed against her collarbone, her shoulder. His hand ran over her stomach, smoothing down her side, easing away the ache. His mouth moved lower, as well, touching one breast, then the other, his lips reverently kissing each black-and-blue mark, his tongue gliding over the bruises to the hardened peak.

Draco's hand eased under the waistline of her pants, below the elastic of her white cotton underwear. She was warm there, and he moaned at the wetness that was waiting for him. He had barely touched her, hardly held her, and still she was ready for him...

The earth had almost stopped moving. Hermione felt every breath, every touch, every glowing sensation in slow motion. Everything was perfect. They had all the time in the world.

She was in a trance. Her hands were moving of their own accord: to Draco's lapels, where she helped him remove his regal robe; to his throat, where she carefully untied his black cravat; to the silver buttons of his dress shirt, where her fingers shook as she freed them from their clasps; to his shoulders, where she ran her palms, bringing the material down; to the hem of his white undershirt, where, with eyes locked together, she brought the cotton fabric over his head; then, at last, to his bare chest, where, entranced, she ran them over hard muscles and warm skin. They didn't stop—couldn't—until Draco's hand came up to cover them, pausing the movement, pressing her palms hard against his heart.

"Do you feel it beating?" he asked her, his breath ragged, his eyes searching hers. She nodded, swallowing uncertainly as she felt the erratic drumbeat against her hand. "For you," he told her passionately. "Only for you."

Draco's hands moved to unbutton his pants, and with her help, he pulled them off. He dragged hers down, as well, and then her underwear, pulling both completely off her and letting them fall forgotten on the floor. His eyes left hers to run worshipfully down her body, taking in the scarring that rose above the skin, the jagged rises and falls that crisscrossed over the white.

_Beautiful…_

Hermione watched him watching her, waiting for his reaction, praying to God that it wouldn't be disgust. His eyes came back to hers, and he could see the hesitance there. He shook his head, ran a finger down the lone scar on her cheek. "You have nothing to be ashamed of," he told her, his jaw tight, his eyes bright with tension, with _passion_. "You're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen."

A part of her wanted to argue, but his hand was at her center again, making her gasp, causing the words to evaporate off of her tongue. His voice had been tense, earnest. He was telling the truth, she realized. Draco thought she was beautiful. And with him she _felt _beautiful, _was _beautiful. Wasn't that all that mattered?

Draco felt her hand circle his manhood and begin to stroke, grasping and squeezing slowly, causing him to swallow hard with pleasure. His breathing was as shallow as hers now, the deep breaths unsteadily coming in an out.

As if by some cosmic strength, some magnet force, the two joined together. Looking into her eyes, Draco eased inside of her, moving slow, penetrating deep. They began to move as if in a trance, rocking slowly, their faces close, their lips touching, their eyes intense and locked together. Neither could look away. There were no lies between them now, no spells, no magic but the kind they were making here and now.

When it was over, Draco held her close in his arms, curling his body around hers, burying his face in her silky curls. Her breathing evened, and her eyelids became heavy. She blinked languidly, but kept them open. She couldn't sleep, couldn't miss these precious moments, the ones she had waited so long for, the ones she knew would be over too soon.

After a long time, she turned herself in his arms, until their faces were close together, their slow breaths mingling. "I missed this," she whispered after a while. She looked through her lashes into his eyes. "Being close to you."

Draco said nothing, only situated her naked body tight against his side. He had missed it too, all of it: the feel of her cheek against his shoulder; the feel of her breath as it gently brushed against his neck; the feel of her smooth palm as it rested over his heart…

But he frowned at the feel of it against him now. It _wasn't _smooth, the way it had been before, the way he remembered it. For the first time, he could feel a ridge there.

Light brows furrowing, he held her hand away from his chest. There was a harsh, raised horizontal line across it now, with tiny vertical scars where the stitches had been. "Is this...?" He trailed off, his gaze searching out hers. Reluctantly, she nodded, and his jaw clenched tight. It killed him that he was the reason for one of her scars—killed him because it made him no better than the heartless bastard who had caused all the rest.

He swallowed in the silence, tormented, sickened by himself. "You did this because of me," he said through his teeth. "For me." His gaze was dark as he watched the intolerable line. "You shouldn't have," he told her bitterly. "I shouldn't have let you."

"You didn't let me," she reminded him gently. "_I_ did this."

He only shook his head. He stared at her palm, the slash that ran clean across it. With infinite gentleness, he stroked his thumb over the scar.

Hermione watched him watch her hand with those piercing silver eyes, longed to soothe away the guilt. "It doesn't matter, Draco," she tried to tell him.

His eyes snapped to hers, and he immediately held her away. "Stop saying it doesn't matter," he commanded harshly. "It matters. You_ matter_." He shook his head, gritted his teeth—swallowed, finding calm. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet, tense. "I can't bear the thought of you being in pain..." The uncharacteristic confession was darkened by something akin to regret.

Carefully, Hermione laid her head back down, her brown eyes considering the once-injured palm. "It didn't hurt," she assured him softly, numbly.

He swallowed. "Then why do I feel the knife cutting across my own hand?" _Why do I feel it slicing open my heart? Why am I bleeding to death inside?_ He didn't admit the rest out loud. He had already said too much.

But somehow, she could feel the words he didn't say. "You shouldn't feel guilty," she whispered sadly. "This wasn't your fault."

"Really?" he asked resentfully. He turned his face so that his cheek rested against her hair, folded her scarred hand in his. The scent of her soft curls was like a narcotic, but still it didn't soothe his unrest. "I shouldn't have given him your blood," he said quietly after a while.

"He might have killed you if you hadn't, Draco," she reminded him. "You didn't have a choice."

She felt his head shake against hers. "I should have protected you," she heard him say. "I should have done what was right."

Hermione held herself away so that she could look into his eyes; they were dark, like smoke, the kind that rose from burning wood; like the shining steel of gunmetal just before the fatal pull of the trigger. "I knew what I was doing when I filled that filled that vial. I knew who it would end up with. I did it anyway." She smiled sadly, shook her head, her soft curls swaying. "It was my choice, Draco. You can't take that blame away from me."

He only clenched his jaw. He looked away, unconvinced.

Hermione sighed. "I don't want to talk about this," she whispered finally. "I don't want to waste the little time we have left together thinking about what might happen when we're not." She reached out, turned his face so she could look into his eyes. "And we won't be," she told him seriously, sadly. "After tonight, things have to go back to the way they were before."

Draco's jaw worked, but he didn't disagree.

Hermione averted her gaze too, unable to bear it—and became aware of the room around her for the first time. Her gaze slowly roamed, taking in the splendor. It was a master's suite, spacious and elegant—far more so than the Head Boy and Girl rooms at Hogwarts could ever be. Striped Regency wallpaper spanned from ceiling to floor, thick, dark forest strips interchanging with black ones that were lined in fine gold dots and decorated with an intricate floral design. Windows faced the canopy bed, their heavy curtains pulled back, secured by braided ropes, and moonlight streamed in, aiding the candle flames that burned in the antique-gold chandelier above. The furniture was made of dark, smooth wood, the seats and sofas cushioned in shades of green, gold, and cream.

Slowly, she climbed off of the bed, wanting suddenly to run her hands over that smooth wood, over the etched windowsills, the dark velvet curtains—wanting to explore this place she'd never been, this place she'd never be again. "Your room is… beautiful," she said with a sad sort of awe.

Draco watched her. The way her pale skin stood out against the dark room had his heart burning, had his teeth gritting tight. He felt a wave of possession run through him at the sight of her there, in his room, amongst his things. His hands fisted, crumpling the black silk bed sheets in his grasp. "None of it was my doing," he assured her dismissively.

Hermione roamed slowly, letting her scarred palm run over the frame of the antique sofa, the bookshelf, the surface of the mantelpiece over the hearth. "What about these," she asked, coming to stand underneath two large landscape paintings that hung in heavy gold museum frames on the wall.

"Two of Thomas Hardwick's," he informed her, his dark gaze on the scar-white burns that cascaded down her shoulder blade instead of the colors that cascaded down the canvas.

Her eyes widened a bit, returning to the wall to admire the dark brushstrokes. Hardwick was one of the wizarding world's most influential post-Impressionist painter's, renowned for his landscapes, particularly ones of the English moors. "I can't believe you have these," she whispered, shaking her head in wonder. "It's like… having a piece of history all to yourself. Owning a piece of time." She lifted a hand, let it linger in the air inches away from the black treetops and starless night sky. "They must have cost a fortune each."

Draco rose, stepping into his pants. Slowly, he came up behind her, taking her by the shoulders, holding her naked back against his front. Her long curls were feather-soft as they swept against his chest. "These are nothing," he dismissed with bland smile. "My father would never allow anything of real value in this part of the house."

Hermione slowly turned in his arms, her brows furrowed as if she wasn't sure she understood. "You mean… there's _more_?" she asked him, unable to fathom the idea.

There was an awestruck look in the depths of her dark eyes, a faded version of the one he'd seen there years before—the one she'd get while listening to the teachers talk about eras past, while learning something fascinating, while discovering something new.

Draco couldn't stop his mild smile from tinting with affection. He laughed under his breath. Tilting his head, he considered her for a moment. And then he began to back away. He grabbed his dress shirt from the bed, tossed it to her. "Put this on and come with me," he commanded. "I have something I want to show you."

* * *

The sun had long since disappeared behind the trees that surrounded the Burrow. The Weasleys had long since gone to sleep, each amiable redhead safe and sound within their beds. Harry sat alone now in the darkness of the silent living room, his head resting against the comfy cushioned sofa back, his emerald eyes staring up at the ceiling. He wanted to sleep, but he'd been forced to give up on the idea entirely. There was just too much on his mind, too much he was unsure about—Hermione, Malfoy, Voldemort...

Ginny…

Christmases at the Weasley house should have been like a dream come true. How many times had he prayed for warm apple pie, for hot chocolate with marshmallows by the fire, for presents with big bows sitting under the tree with his name on the card? How many times had he imagined being surrounded by people who truly loved him? How many times had he longed for a real family? Now that he had it, however, it was bittersweet. Because _she _was always there, smiling at him, looking at him with those bright blue eyes…

And he couldn't look at her like a sister. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't do it. He worked at it, forcing himself to seem platonic—but no matter how much time passed, how much effort he put into it, he could never _be _platonic. Not with her…

He could hear the merciless _tick tick_ of the clock. His dry eyes burned, longing to close, but his busy mind rebelliously ordered them to stay open. Eventually, he forced himself to rise from the sunken cushions of the couch, to head dutifully towards Ron's room, where the relief of a soft bed was waiting. Slowly, he began to step up the narrow stairs—but his feet paused as they reached the landing of the next floor. He was instantly aware of the subtle glow that came from somewhere to his right—it had him stuck, had him unable to move on.

His eyes narrowed. White light shined out from underneath Ginny's closed door. She must still be awake, he realized warily. He stared as shadows played in the small space between the bottom of the door and the carpet, signaling movement within the room. Instantly alert, he listened in the silence, his jaw clenching as the sound of her humming voice quietly wafted down the short hallway.

His hand tightened on the banister, his fingers gripping, trying to hold him where he was. He looked down the steps, where he knew the little hand of the clock pointed accusatorially at the one. It was late, he tried to reason with himself, too late to be pestering her—too late for _her_ to be plaguing _him_.

But even as he fought with himself, he was striding to her door. He couldn't fight that automatic part of him, the part that always led him to her like a magnet, even when he knew it would be better to keep away.

He could hear her footsteps now through the door, could hear her muted singing more clearly. He recognized the tune. It was _My Curse_, a ballad by the Weird Sisters.

He stepped closer still, her muffled voice luring him in like a siren's call. He was near enough now to make out the words, and they hung heavy in the air around him. The song was about waiting, about patience wearing thin, about love so loyal that it stayed even when unrequited, even when spurned. The lyrics were like a message, as natural as if she had written them herself—as cutting as if she was singing them to him alone.

Silently, he pressed his forehead against her door, closed his eyes. Frustration and accusation had never sounded so melodic. It was the perseverant hope that made the song so haunting, that endless struggle between endurance and defeat. Ginny had that, he knew, that persistence inside of her, that defiant refusal to give up on him. The sound of her voice cut into his conscience. He had sworn to her that he wouldn't keep her waiting forever—a promise made in a moment of panic that he was sure now he'd never be able to keep_._

The song ended. Her voice slowly faded and silence fell again. He knew he should go, knew he should head upstairs where he belonged—where she would be safe from him. But, of course, he was a glutton for punishment. He couldn't force his legs to move, couldn't force himself to walk away. He shook his head at his own stupidity—but it didn't stop him from slowly raising a fist to the door. Quietly, he rapped his knuckles against it.

A moment went by. The door opened hesitantly, just a crack, and Ginny's bright ocean eyes peered curiously at him through the small space.

He shoved his hands into his pockets. "Hey."

"Hey." She opened the door an inch more, her eyes narrowing speculatively. "You're still awake? I thought you were going to bed early so you could be up at dawn for Hermione's surprise."

"I'm heading up now. I just… saw your light on." He shrugged a shoulder. "Thought I'd say goodnight."

"Oh. Goodnight." One eyebrow arched when he didn't turn, didn't move, only continued to watch her. "Was there… something else?"

His own eyebrows furrowed. "No."

"No?" He shook his head, confirming it. "Oh." She waited again, expecting him to move, but he didn't. An awkward moment… "Were you… wondering about the pies? Because I wrapped them up and put them with the rest of Mione's gifts..."

He nodded. "I saw."

"Oh," she said again. "Grand. Then you should be all set." But still he watched her, not moving, not turning to go. Slowly, unsurely, she opened the door all the way. "So did you… want to come in for a minute?" she asked him perplexedly.

God, she was scantily clad, wearing nothing but a flimsy tank top and the shortest of short shorts! Harry's eyes immediately averted, looking beyond her instead of at her, bringing her milky skin and the slight swell of cleavage out of focus. "Why?" he asked warily.

Her ginger brows furrowed. "I don't know," she said carefully. "To talk?"

"At one o'clock?" he returned stiffly.

Ginny frowned. "I thought…" She trailed off, looking uncertainly between him and the door. "Well, you knocked…"

"Right. To say goodnight."

Ginny watched him, watched the way he stared just over her shoulder, his jaw clenched tight, his body tense. Her gaze softened. "Right…" she answered gently, knowingly. "Well goodnight then."

He nodded jerkily. "See you in the morning."

"It is the morning, Harry," she threw back mildly.

His eyes glanced dully at hers. "I know. I meant… see you later in the morning. When it's light out."

Her lips curved slowly. "Can't you see me well enough in this light?"

The provoking words had Harry's eyes snapping back to hers. And then slowly, darkly, they traveled downward—over her bear shoulders; over her collarbones to the round swell of breasts, where a few tiny freckles were sprinkled across her rosy skin; over her abdomen, where her lavender tank top clung to her small waist; over her smooth thighs and long legs. When his gaze finally returned to hers, it was haunted and hot.

He didn't answer, but that look in his eyes said everything. It had her own eyes widening, had her breath catching, had her heartbeat picking up. And suddenly, she wasn't so flippant or confident or daring. In the darkness, with his gaze intense on her skin—with her bed waiting for them both behind her—she suddenly had the feeling that she'd gotten in over her head. "Later in the morning, then. When it's light out," she agreed breathlessly. "Goodnight, Harry." She whirled the door closed so quickly that it caused a breeze to ruffle his hair.

Still, Harry didn't move, not after the door had shut, not even after he saw the light shining out from underneath it go dark.

"Not likely," he said bleakly under his breath.

He watched the closed door for a long time before finally turning and continuing up the stairs. He laid out on his cot but didn't sleep, just stared at the ceiling, waiting for Ron's alarm clock to ring.

* * *

The Emerald Ball was still swirling in the hours after midnight. The haunting sound of strings still spun its web over the jade and forest-colored sea. Couples were still dancing, revolving elegantly around the marble floor, and dainty ladies were still watching coyly from behind their black lace fans. Gentlemen were still going back forth over their snifters, debating politics, commenting on principles, and criticizing the changing tide of the economy.

Lucius Malfoy, however, was not among the pack. He had broken away from the festivities to take care of some business—something he was always compelled to do if presented the opportunity. He sat now in the master's study with his longtime associate, the host of the ball, Edward DaMont. Their scrutinizing eyes both scanned the long inked parchments in their respective grasps, and though the room was empty, habit kept their voices stern and low when they spoke to one another. Long minutes were spent discussing various discrepancies between older pages and newer ones, and though those discrepancies were signs of rising fortunes, their lips stayed straight, with only the barest, driest hints of smiles.

After a long time, the quiet was broken by a resounding knock against the door.

"Enter," Edward called, not looking up.

The door creaked eerily as it slowly opened, but neither man raised his gaze—not until the newcomer spoke, breaking the silence, filling the room with that dark, familiar voice that was like ice and fire all at once.

"I hope I'm not interrupting…"

Both men's eyes suddenly snapped up. Lucius shot to his feet. "My lord."

The Dark Lord slowly reached up one skeletal hand and lowered his dark hood away from his face. "Lucius," he greeted with that crack of a grin. His black gaze moved to the man seated diplomatically behind the desk. He was older now, a statelier, more refined version of the boy he remembered meeting so often in passing all those years ago. "Edward," he added, acknowledging him. "It's been quite a long time." He watched as the other man slowly, cautiously rose. "I hope I am welcome...?"

Edward's dark hazel eyes were unreadable. "I would never dare say otherwise," he said.

One corner of Voldemort's crooked smile turned up at the tactful reply. "I'm happy to hear it," he returned, folding his long fingers together. "We have so many people in common. And a friend of my friend is always a friend of mine." Wistfully, his head tilted to the side. "I only wish I could have enticed you to make it official all those years ago," he went on reminiscently. "You had everything to gain…"

"And everything to lose," Edward returned with a pleasant smile. He pulled his timepiece from his breast pocket, considered it with narrowed eyes. "Speaking of which, my wife has been waiting," he said, returning the pocket watch to its home within his robe. "I'll leave you two to your business. We can finish ours another time."

"My gratitude," Voldemort stated mildly, watching as the younger man came out from behind the desk and headed towards him with unhesitant strides. Slowly, he stepped aside, clearing the path to the door—bowing slightly, condescendingly, as the other man passed. "Wish the lovely Minuet a happy Christmas on my behalf."

Edward said nothing, but his eyes were dark at the sound of his wife's name. He glanced one last time between the two men, then let himself out of the room, closing the heavy door behind him.

Voldemort watched the dark wood amusedly for a moment before returning his eyes to Lucius. "He looks the same," he observed. "Still youngish. And handsome as ever."

Lucius nodded once. "The years have been kind to him."

The Dark Lord's smile was tight at the words. "Yes. The years have a perverted way of punishing those who are worthy and rewarding those who are not." He crossed his black-clad arms. "I am evidence enough of that fact."

Lucius' silver eyes were framed by furrowed brows. "Edward DaMont is a very powerful man," he said carefully.

The skeleton man nodded. "Still, he was the weakest of that little group of friends." He took up a gold frame that rested on a surface nearby. It was a picture of Edward at the end of his Hogwarts days, young and strapping, a disarming smile on his face. Sprinkled on the common room furniture around him were two other boys and three beautiful girls, each one peering at the camera with a different expression—but all looking entirely superior in a perfect portrait of that era's Slytherin Court. The Dark Lord's eyes considered the other two men in the photo fondly—one smirking from over a snifter of brandy, the other raising his brow aloofly from his regal position in an armchair, a cigar held between his fingers, a string of smoke winding into the air. "They were good to me," Voldemort remembered, wistful. He shook his head. "How unjust a world it is that lets _him_ prosper while the better men rot away..." His gaze slowly rose. "Whether it be behind bars or in the grave..."

Lucius' jaw tightened, but the Dark Lord didn't see. His black eyes were already back on the frame in his grasp, wry and reminiscent at the memory of his fallen generals. A moment went by before he replaced it on the glass tabletop.

"You were all seriousness when I walked in, Lucius," he commented after a while, casual once again as he slowly stepped further into the room. "Nothing the matter, I hope."

Lucius shook his head. "Nothing the matter," he confirmed. "DaMont and I were merely discussing a joint venture, running over the latest numbers and such."

The Dark Lord slowly shook his head. "Work, work, work, Lucius. Always work. I'm beginning to believe you're determined to never have any fun. Even at the grandest party of the season, you're busy examining facts and figures." He clucked his tongue, tisking amusedly. "Were they to your liking, at least?"

Lucius glanced back to the long scrolls of paper piled on the desk. "Quite. Profits are up," he answered, and one corner of his mouth tilted. "You should know by now that I only ever make sound investments," he stated, him smile dry and drenched in arrogance.

Voldemort nodded, the movement slow. "Yes, we are similar in that way," he said with a smirk. He turned his eyes away, considering the room. "Recently, however, I've been learning to enjoy the beauty of a _true_ gamble." He glanced briefly at Lucius. "Speaking of which—where is your son?"

Gleaming silver grayed to smoke. "You pose an excellent question," the other man said stiffly, his jaw clenched, patient but perturbed. His teeth were gritted; he was reluctant to admit the truth—but too wise to consider covering it up. "One I'm afraid I can't answer. It appears he made his escape as soon as my back was turned."

The Dark Lord laughed quietly. "Ever true to form."

"Yes," Lucius agreed resentfully. "I wish I could say I was surprised. But I believe he's lost the capacity to put me in that wretched state."

Voldemort's smile was dark and wry. "Oh, I wouldn't be so sure," he stated quietly. "The night is still young. There's still plenty of time for him to live up to the task."

Lucius' gaze narrowed skeptically at that. "Ominous words," he replied guardedly. His blond brows furrowed, trying to make sense of them. "Should I be expecting something?" he asked, his eyes searching his master's endless and unrevealing black ones.

The Dark Lord looked on with mild amusement. "You should always be expecting something, Lucius," he told him dryly. "The moment you cease is the moment before you find a knife in your back."

Lucius raised a brow. "That's vague," he said stiffly. "And hardly reassuring."

The Dark Lord laughed, the sound slow and smooth as oil. "I know, I know," he told his friend ruefully. "It's like a storybook. If I give away all the intricate little details now, the ending won't have quite the same kind of impact." He slowly, deliberately shrugged one pointed shoulder. "Besides, I'm only a character in this little tale, Lucius. Not even I can claim to know what's going to happen next." He circled DaMont's majestic desk, running his hand over the dustless surface. "I merely came because I have a feeling about tonight," he informed the younger man easily. "Perhaps I've been infected by the holiday spirit, but I have a giddy sort of feeling that a gift is on its way."

Lucius tilted his head, watching the Dark Lord's long, pale hands wrap around the sides of Edward's wing-back chair, carefully pulling it out and seating himself in it. "I've never known your instincts to fail you, my lord."

"And here is to hoping tonight won't be a first." Voldemort motioned for Lucius to sit across from him. "Just in case, I wanted to make sure our priorities are in check. I need to know that we're on the same page," he went on when the other man was settled, folding his pale fingers judiciously on the desk.

Lucius crossed his arms. "We usually are." He frowned into the silence. "Is there… something specific you wanted me to do?"

Voldemort smiled calmly. "What you've always done, Lucius. Go on about your business," he said. "Let Draco go on about his."

Lucius' eyes narrowed. "You mean _let _him run wild," he deciphered skeptically. The Dark Lord's pleasant smile was confirmation enough. "But why?"

"I know he's a bit… unorthodox," Voldemort allowed amusedly. "But I've dealt enough with him these past weeks to assure me of his intentions. And I'm confident his enterprises, whatever they may be, are in line with mine." He crossed his arms amusedly at the way his friend's jaw tightened patiently. "You still look uneasy. Don't you trust me?"

Lucius took a while to answer. "It's him I'm skeptical of," he finally said warily.

The Dark Lord tilted his head, his smile sly. "I though it was you who assured me he knows his place. I thought it was you who said he knows better than to fail me…"

"What Draco knows and what he does are two different things," Lucius said cautiously.

Voldemort clucked his tongue. "He bears the Mark now, Lucius. And earned it fairly by completing his Task," he reminded the cynical man. "I trust that he'll do what I need him to do. I trust that he will do what is right." One corner of his mouth tilted up. "I only find it a bit troubling that you do not…"

Lucius uncrossed his arms, rested them rigidly on the armrests, his hands gripping patiently. "When it comes to skill and strength, of course, I have no doubts," he assured the Dark Lord calmly. "He's what I made him to be in that respect." He paused cautiously before continuing. "It's his dedication that I have my reservations about," he went on quietly. "He's apathetic. He doesn't care about expectations or consequences. He's been like that his entire life—willful and self-serving. My strict regimes and schedules never affected that in the slightest."

The Dark Lord nodded slowly. "He is untamable. That's what makes him such an asset." His black-orb eyes gleamed like onyx. "A wild animal is ten times more ferocious than a broken one."

"And ten times more unpredictable," Lucius reasoned. "Volatility is a dangerous thing, my lord. Draco is dangerous."

Voldemort's smile stayed wide and thin, but one corner twitched with the first sign of impatience. "I know. That is why I chose him."

Lucius bent his head. "And, of course, we are honored that you did so," he said—wiser, quieter now. "I would have never endorsed his election if I didn't believe he could fulfill our expectations." He dared to look up. "But he hasn't proven to me that he's ready for this amount of responsibility. I'm still not certain he knows what true loyalty is."

The Dark Lord's smile was slow and smooth. "Oh, I think he does, Lucius," he countered quietly. His black eyes were bright. "In fact, I'm counting on it."

"As are we all," Lucius sighed, his own eyes dark.

The Dark Lord nodded slowly, watching his young friend with furtive self-satisfaction. The man before him didn't know just how much was riding on his son's _true loyalties_.

He would soon, though. They all would...

"Go back to the celebration," he commanded after a while. "Drink. Be merry for once," he insisted when Lucius grimaced. "It is Christmas, after all. What better time than today to celebrate the coming of a new king." He laughed quietly under his breath—and then slowly disappeared, evaporating into the air in black wisps of smoke. The lingering echoes of his quiet laughter sounded as warm as Satan's as it lifted above the room.

* * *

"Where exactly are you taking me," Hermione asked, biting her bottom lip, unable to keep a small smile from tilting. The world behind her eyelids was black. Draco's hands were gentle over her closed eyelids, his bare chest pressed against her back as he slowly guided her forward. And although she was being led, blind and uncertain, she was surprised to find that she wasn't afraid. For all she knew, he was steering her to the open edge of a cliff. But she was entirely at peace with it, with _him_. She was entirely trusting. He could take her wherever he wanted—to heaven, to hell. She would go with him willingly, just as long as he stayed close.

"You'll see," he said amusedly, his voice coming from just behind her, close to her ear. "We're almost there…"

Moments passed in silence, but neither rushed to fill it. He was too busy with the spring smell of her hair, the feel of her back against his front as he gently eased her forward. She was too busy with the feel of his body against hers, with the feel of his warm breath against her ear.

Finally, he paused, drawing her to a halt. "I'm going to take my hands away now," he warned her quietly. "But don't look. Not until I say." Slowly, he took his hands from her face, his arms from around her. She felt him draw away, making her suddenly cold. She heard the slow creak of heavy doors being pushed open before her—then, he was taking her by the hands, gently pulling her forward. He brought her a few steps before pausing. Slowly, he released her hands, and she brought them up to fiddle nervously with the diamond at her throat. Her smile faltered briefly when they found bare skin.

Draco's jaw worked as he watched her remember that she'd given back the necklace. He swallowed as her hands slowly fell back to her sides, trying to swallow the bitterness down with the saliva, trying not to let the resentment taint these few brief unguarded moments—these dwindling moments that very well may be their last. "Alright," he told her, making his voice strong, keeping the regret out of it. "Open your eyes."

Hermione's eyelids parted slowly, almost hesitantly, the warm amber immediately finding that bright silver gaze. And then, just as slowly, she let her eyes shift, let them roam, wide and in wonder, around the open room.

"Oh my God."

Cool marble was beneath her bare feet now instead of carpet, white and grey warping together in that regal way. Bright candlelight illuminated the crisp white walls that stood tall and far apart, leaving a wide expanse between one side of the room to the other, revealing not a mere room, but a hall, large and overwhelming. And filling the vacant space across the cool floor and along the broad walls was the most extensive personal collection of masterpieces Hermione had ever seen. White sculptures were scattered across the floor, their surfaces gleaming in the soft glow of candlelight—romantic women sprawled out seductively, built men frozen in a flurry of muscled motion, children playing together, invisible wind in their curls. Colorful paintings were mounted in impressive gold frames, representing every art movement one could think of, spanning from the Old Masters of the Renaissance, to the Gothic painters and the Mannerists in the 16th century, to the Romantics, to the Pre-Raphaelites, all the way through to the Impressionists at the end of the 19th century…

"This is the gallery," Draco informed her after a while, his eyes watching hers as they slowly circled the room in awe.

Hermione shook her head. "You say it so casually," she whispered breathlessly. Her hand went to her heart. "Merely the gallery. And here I was thinking somehow I was in heaven…"

Draco's lips tilted up, but the smile was as tired as it was warm. "You're not," he assured her humorlessly. "Trust me." He knew better than anyone that the gold and silver weren't blessings–they were merely the gleaming prison bars of his gilded cage.

He watched her as she began to slowly step forward, began to examine one sculpture, then a painting, then another, her lips tilting into a small, serene smile. His silver gaze stayed on her, moving over her as if memorizing her, as if internalizing the sight of her, this sight he would never have again. She looked so small in the room; so small in his dress shirt, which was sizes too big for her fragile frame. The sleeves were too long, reaching over her wrists, and the hem fell down to her thighs, hiding the white cotton of her underwear, but revealing her long, uncovered legs. The scars were hidden again, concealed by the old spell, seemingly forgotten in this place of beauty, this place where only smooth alabaster remained.

She looked so comfortable, barefoot, clothed only in his shirt—so at home here in his home. Draco felt that wave of possession wash through him again, and for a moment, in the silence, he pretended that she belonged here. That it was hers as much as his.

"I wish I could show you everything," he said after a while. "There are antiquities and masterpieces sprinkled on every wall in every corner of this damn place. But it would have been impossible to take you through the entire house…"

Hermione swallowed, the wisp of a smile thinning. Yes. Impossible, she knew. There were too many rooms and too little time. And the chances that someone would see them—would see _her_—were far too high. "That's alright," she whispered, meeting his gaze, smiling reassuringly, gratefully. "I never thought I'd even get to see this much."

A muscle in Draco's jaw twitched. His eyes stayed on hers for a moment, dark and haunted, before they slowly traveled, searching her bruised face. "How do you feel?" he asked her quietly. The black and blue was dark now, purple like night, causing his teeth to grit.

Hermione swept one long curl behind her ear, gently brushing the mark that colored her temple as she did. "I'm fine."

Draco came forward, slowly closing the distance. "Your face…"

She turned self-consciously to the side. "I did the spell in a rush," she explained with a faltering smile. "The new ones always take more time to hide." She shrugged one tired shoulder. "I'll fix it before I go…"

"That won't take away the pain," he pressed, unable to bear it—unable to bear the idea that she _could_. He brought one hand up to lightly flutter against the vicious bruises. "Let me get you something…"

Hermione brought her own hand up. "Leave it, Draco," she commanded quietly, taking his fingers, bringing them away from her face. "I'm okay. I promise." With a small, reassuring smile, she slowly began to step away, extending their joined hands until he reluctantly released her, letting her continue her careful sweep of the room. "I… don't remember how we got here though," she admitted after a while, glancing hesitantly at him, then back to the sculpture before her. "Did you apparate us?"

Draco followed a few steps behind her, giving her space, but not too much. "I have a charmed portkey that gets me in and out," he said of the antique sugar spoon that he kept safe in his robe pocket. "The estate is like Hogwarts, enchanted to prevent apparition." He crossed his arms, his eyes always on her as she moved from one piece to another. "My ancestors thought disapparating and apparating indoors was in bad taste," he went on, his smile taut. "And easy escapes were bad for Malfoy business, particularly in the 16th and 17th centuries, when the dungeons were regularly in use."

Hermione's brows furrowed and her gaze went to his. "The 16th century?"

He nodded. "That's when the house was built."

Hermione's amazed eyes went back to roam the room. "So long ago," she mused with a wistful smile. She shook her head. "It must be wonderful having so much history."

But Draco's smile was tight at the sound of her admiration. "Don't let the fine things fool you," he warned her bitterly. "My _prestigious_ family tree was watered with the blood of innocent people. The titles, the money, the priceless works of art—they're the spoils of war." He glared around at the beautiful masterpieces as if they were demons he couldn't exorcise. "This house is the same as it always was. A prison."

Hermione's eyes softened on Draco's profile. "One day it will be yours," she reminded him gently. "You'll be able to make new memories here."

His dark gaze was suddenly finding hers. "Not the memories I want to make," he told her meaningfully. "Not with the people I want to make them with."

Hermione swallowed. She felt something heavy suddenly weighing down her heart, some strange mixture of longing and regret. She didn't answer, didn't speak, couldn't—only turned her sad eyes away from his and went on studying one painting after another in the silence.

Minutes came and went, long and quiet. Hermione slowly made her way around the room, the only sound the light pitter-pat of her bare feet as they slowly padded across the marble. She spent a long while gazing at each moving masterpiece, as if learning each one by heart: a medieval knight and maiden embracing under the shade of a tree; the Madonna slowly rocking her bright-eyed Child back and forth; an aristocratic lady closing her parasol and turning her pale face to the sun; Artemis angling a sacred arrow high at some wild bird that flew somewhere out of frame; a portrait of a precocious child that waved at her from its seat. Time seemed to stand still, though she knew it was probably flying by quickly, and as she turned back out of the gallery and into the long corridor, she wondered if it had been hours or only minutes that she had spent within the beautiful room.

Draco followed her out, still leaving a few steps between them. He watched her, his jaw tight, as she silently began to examine the framed portraits mounted on the high corridor wall, the ones his hands had prevented her from seeing on the way in.

Hermione's tired eyes scanned from one severe face to another, where smirks and sneers were frozen in place. "They don't move?" she asked, glancing at Draco.

He shook his head. "My father charmed them to be still when I was younger. He never explained why." His narrowed gaze went to the harsh, familiar eyes of his ancestors. "I imagine it was because he was tired of listening to them," he added grimly. "They liked to criticize."

Hermione moved slowly down the corridor, taking in all the Malfoys that had come before. The majestic regalia in which each aristocrat was adorned illustrated the evolution of high fashion over the centuries. The first noblemen wore their regal doublets, their leather jerkins, their codpieces fastened over hose, their sophisticated hats adorned by jewels and accented with long feathers. Next came the men in intricate collars, in loose breeches and heavy capes, their pale faces accentuated by long moustaches and pointed beards. After them were the men in waistcoats and powdered wigs; after them, their dandy sons, who wore long sideburns and silk cravats. The regal women, just like their fathers and sons, followed the pattern as they stretched down the hallway, the shapes of their gowns changing, growing and then shrinking, their hairstyles varying depending on the decade.

They looked so mighty in their expensive attire, so superior with their lips curling, with their chins held high. Hermione swallowed, hating the way they seemed to look down on her, hating the way their silver eyes seemed to follow her, seemed to see through her, condemn her, even though they were frozen in place.

"They're so stern," she whispered warily. "Like they know what I am." She hugged her upper arms. "Like they know I shouldn't be here." She searched their metallic gazes for some kind of warmth, but could only find cold ice and contempt.

Draco stepped towards her. "They're paintings, Hermione," he stated mildly. "And the real people are long dead." His gaze went to the portraits, daring them to try to argue. "What they think or would have thought doesn't matter."

But Hermione knew better. "Yes it does," she countered quietly. She looked back to the paintings, to where the watchful eyes were dark, even as moonlight shined on them from the tall windows of the parallel wall. She shook her head, her smile tilting sadly. "They wouldn't have approved of me…"

Draco's eyes narrowed. "No," he answered cautiously. "They wouldn't have." She glanced at him, and he longed to smile, longed to reassure, but couldn't. "I doubt they would have approved of me, either," he told her tightly. "They weren't easily impressed."

Hermione's gaze watched him for a moment, before turning back to the heavy frames on the wall. "What about him?" she asked thoughtfully, nodding to one particularly unsympathetic man whose portrait was labeled _Abraxas Malfoy_, followed by a date of birth and death. "Your grandfather, right?" she asked as he came to stand beside her. "Was he good to you?"

Draco's smile was annoyed. "Not particularly," he said. "He was a hard man—like my father. Very strict, very taciturn; never satisfied, always finding fault." He shook his head, his jaw tight as he considered the cold, familiar face. "In all the years I knew him, I don't think I ever heard him laugh. I don't think he knew how." He shrugged a shoulder, trying not to care. It didn't quite work. "My mother's father was apparently much more charismatic," he went on grimly. "But I never knew him." A moment passed. And then he turned his eyes away from Abraxas' harsh silver ones and towards Hermione's deep amber. "What about your grandparents?" he asked her speculatively.

It was Hermione's turn to shrug, the movement uncomfortable and weak. "My mother's parents died before I was born. I only ever knew my father's mother—Eleanor."

Involuntarily, Draco remembered the framed photograph from her memory, the one of the young girl with glazed, tired eyes. The one her bastard father had looked upon with such adoration, even as he'd impatiently called out Hermione's name. He frowned. "The old black-and-white photo at your house…?"

Hermione nodded, the movement subdued. "Her. When she was around my age," she explained. She shook her head, her eyes becoming wistful, her smile becoming languid and sad. "My dad loves that picture," she mused quietly. "He's always saying how much I look like her…"

Draco's jaw clenched. "I didn't notice," he lied.

Hermione shook her head, suddenly flooded with the memories she'd had so carefully stored away. "She was hard, too," she remembered wistfully. "Finicky and disapproving." Her eyes narrowed, and she laughed under her breath—humorless, almost disbelieving. "She had this miniature bull terrier that she absolutely adored," she recalled thoughtfully. "That ugly thing was her whole world. She was always petting it and pampering it. It went everywhere she went, and when she looked at it, her eyes would light up with this… boundless pride." That reminiscent smile began to falter, fade. "But whenever she looked at my father, it was with such utter… distaste," she went on numbly. "She showed him no affection. She treated the _dog _like her son and her son like the dog."

Draco's brow went up. "And his father—your grandfather?"

Hermione shook her head. "They never talked about it, and I never asked. But I always got the impression that my dad never even knew who his father was." That ghost of a smile was back on her lips. "It's rather sad, really," she mused after a moment. "He spent his whole life isolated. Completely without a father. Dependent on a mother who genuinely disliked him, competing with a dog for her attention." She looked down at her hands. "Still, he was devoted to her," she remembered sadly. "He was always trying to connect with her, always trying to make her love him. He was trying until the day she died…"

Draco's brows furrowed. "When was that?"

She had that vague look in her dark brown eyes. "Just before I started at Hogwarts," she answered numbly. _Just before…_ Hermione shook her head, trying to shake the memories away with it. She didn't want to remember, didn't want to recall the reasons why. But the black-and-white picture of her grandmother flashed before her eyes like a mirror image—the reason behind the bruises, behind her father's fixation with her, so full of passionate adoration and violent resentment.

She swallowed, her smile heavy with sorrow. "At first I was glad when it happened," she confessed, her voice barely a whisper. "She did nothing but hurt him."

"So he hurt you?" Draco demanded. Hermione's eyes fell, unable to meet his piercing gaze. His jaw worked at the silent acknowledgment, the grim acceptance the action signified.

Silence fell—heavy, haunted. She felt more than saw him begin to slowly step towards her. She summoned the nerve to raise her gaze to his—but a voice abruptly had them both halting, turning, had them both instantly alert.

"Master Draco, Master Draco!"

A house-elf was hurrying down the corridor in their direction, the hem of his pillowcase almost tripping him in his rush. Hermione immediately turned to the side, bringing a subtle hand up to her hairline, hiding her face, and Draco stepped in front of her, shielding her identity from the approaching servant.

The house-elf slowed, detecting that he'd interrupted—though what exactly, he wasn't sure. His young master had never been one to hide his dirty deeds—not even the giggly lady friends that he tended to entertain in his part of the house. This shift in behavior had the little elf nervous. He was suddenly afraid of what he'd gotten himself into.

"Squiggly doesn't mean to disturb you, sir," he told his master carefully, coming forward now with cautious, timid steps.

Draco crossed his arms superiorly over his bare chest. "What do you want?" he asked impatiently.

The servant looked uncertainly beyond his young master to the girl, then back again. "The master has returned, sir," he told Draco hesitantly. "He and the mistress have just arrived home."

"What!" Draco's head was suddenly whipping around, looking suspiciously up and down the empty corridor, alert, aware. He quickly grabbed Hermione's hand. "Come on," he commanded urgently, dragging her back towards the gallery doors. "You too," he threw over his shoulder at the house-elf. "Quickly."

Squiggly followed, barely slipping through the heavy mahogany doors as Draco slammed them shut. Hermione watched, uncertain, as he began to pace rapidly back and forth, a line marring the space between his brows, his jaw tight as he tried to sort through his racing thoughts.

His mind was instantly running through options. Trying to hide would be a mistake—he knew that without a doubt. Lucius was like hound dog at sniffing out trespassers on his territory. And although one might think the endless choice of unfrequented rooms would be a haven, there was no corner of this manor that his father didn't have eyes and ears on. The paintings talked to the servants, and the servants always reported to their master—and if the master found Hermione hiding, there was no telling what he'd do.

What he'd conclude…

No, running was the only option. He had to get Hermione out of there, and fast.

The house-elf was anxiously beginning to wring his little hands together, his wide eyes looking woefully at the mysterious source of his young master's agitation. "He is asking for you, Master Draco," he forced himself to say, his worried gaze slowly going from Hermione to Draco. "He is demanding that Squiggly show you to the drawing room at once."

Hermione licked her lips, dry and still a little swollen. For a moment, she'd almost felt comfortable here. She'd felt almost serene, almost as if she'd found some haven, surrounded in beautiful things, making her warm, bringing her peace of mind. But she was back to reality now, back to the truth. She wasn't welcome here. She didn't belong.

"I can't stay here, Draco," she said quietly, watching warily as he stormed back and forth.

"Obviously," he bit off, not stopping, not looking up.

Hermione looked wearily around at the timeless paintings—it would be her last look, she knew. They looked back at her with perplexed, pitying gazes. "I'll go home…" she conceded tiredly.

Draco's stormy gaze snapped to hers. "Out of the question."

"To the Burrow, then," she offered, her voice as calm as his was uptight, her body as still as his was restless.

"Excellent," Draco returned sarcastically. "And how exactly do you propose to get there?"

Hermione's eyes went wary as her body absorbed the familiar harsh tone. "A fireplace…?" she suggested dully.

Draco shook his head briskly. "The only one connected to the network is in the drawing room."

Hermione reached a hand up to lightly finger her temple, where behind the purple, a headache was beginning to brew. "The portkey, then. The one that brought us here."

Draco was still a flurry of motion, forward then back, forward then back as he wracked his brain. "It's in my robe pocket back in my chambers," he told her, teeth gritting. "We'd never make it back to that side of the house without being seen." But an afterthought had his gaze snapping suddenly to the elf. "You—you have powers. Use them," he barked expectantly. "Bring it here."

The servant looked hesitant. "Squiggly has lost the ability to apparate," he admitted, his gaze lowering ashamedly. "He has been beaten too many times, sir. His magic is weak." The baleful look of utter irritation on Draco's face had the creature's wide eyes watering. "Perhaps if lady flies, Master Draco…" he dared to suggest, his voice quivering.

The steel-eyed man only clenched his jaw. There was only one part of Hermione's education that she hadn't excelled in—and that was learning to control a broom. They both knew she'd never make it on her own, not in this dark, not in this cold, not with this many miles to travel—not without getting lost or crashing and killing herself first.

Hermione felt herself begin to grow tired. She could feel the cloak of night unwrapping from around them, could feel the proverbial sun coming up, waking them from this interlude, this dream—trapping them, revealing them, tearing them apart. Her dark eyes were dull as she watched Draco pace back and forth. She could see his mind running, desperately searching for some solution. But she didn't feel his desperation, didn't feel anything. Her heart was numb again, heavy with defeat.

"You shouldn't have followed me, Draco," she whispered sadly. "I would have been alright. It didn't matter." She shook her head slowly. "You should have stayed away…"

Draco stopped short. "Don't say that," he commanded harshly, his eyes intense. And then he held a hand up, looked away. "Don't say anything. I need to think." He went back to pacing back and forth, his heavy footsteps the only sound against the silence.

That silence only lasted for a couple of moments before the house-elf's anxious voice broke in again. "The master will surely punish Squiggly if he does not bring you to him now. Squiggly is sure he will be whipped or worse for his insolence!"

Draco's wand was automatically pointing down on the servant. "I'll whip you myself if you don't _shut up_," he threatened dangerously.

Hermione stepped between him and the elf just as he began to menacingly move forward. "Draco…" Her thin hands went up to ward him off, her voice trying to soothe. And then her brows furrowed uncertainly. "Draco?"

He had stopped short, his narrowed gaze turning speculative as it considered her, and then the wand that was frozen outstretched in her direction. He watched the pointed end for a long time, his rapid thoughts settling like the chill after a snowstorm. Slowly, heavily, he lowered his wand, his dark eyes shifting back to hers. "I have an idea."

His quiet tone, tense and haunted, did nothing to comfort. "What is it?" she asked. He didn't answer her, only began to slowly come forward… dark, determined—so much so that Hermione had to fight the instinct to back away. "Draco…?" Her voice was cautious, her eyes uncertain.

Draco didn't reassure her. He only took another step forward, then another. "Do you trust me?" he asked her. Another step. Her questioning gaze came up to his, but he didn't soften. "Yes or no," he pressed. "Do you trust me?"

He was close now, so close that his eyes were just above hers, staring down, unreadable, intense, waiting for an answer. She searched his face, searched those stormy silver eyes, the ones that gave away nothing and everything. After a long time, her lips solemnly curved. "Yes."

Draco didn't show the relief, the regret. Instead, he brought one hand up, combed it reassuringly through her hair. "Then close your eyes," he commanded gently. Her brows furrowed further, her gaze searching his for answers. "Close your eyes, Hermione," he commanded again.

She swallowed. She sensed that she should be afraid—of what would happen, maybe even of him. But his fingers in her hair, combing through the wild curls, soothed her. And slowly, finally, she let her lashes fall.

Draco felt a pang in his chest as he watched her eyelids. Why did she love him? Why did she _trust _him so easily, so utterly? She should hate him—for what he was, for what he was about to do. She should be terrified. But she wasn't. She held her eyelids closed, just as she had on their way to the gallery, giving herself over to him completely, blindly letting him lead her wherever he may.

Jaw tense, eyes haunted, he slowly bent his head; gently, chastely, he pressed his mouth against her bruised one. He felt her lips smile, felt bitterness blacken his heart. Slowly, carefully, he drew away half an inch—and then swiftly turned the tip of his wand to her waist.

"_Sopor_."

The anesthetizing spell conquered her immediately; unconscious, she began to slide to the floor, and, jaw clenching, Draco caught her and easily swung her up into his arms.

The house-elf went wild at the sight of the girl's limp and lifeless body, first falling, and then helpless in the hands of his volatile master. "Master Draco! What have you done, sir!" it cried, panicked. "What have you done?"

Draco looked dull. "Nothing compared to what your _master _will do if he finds out why she's really here," he said deadly. He angled his head towards the double doors. "Come with me. Quickly." He stormed off, not waiting for the creature follow.

Squiggly swallowed, scurrying to keep up with the determined strides. "Where is we going, Master Draco? Where is you taking her?"

"To the dungeon," Draco answered without emotion. The elf stopped short. "Hurry up," the silver-eyed man snapped darkly, not stopping, not looking back. "We don't have much time." The servant took a deep, calming breath, drumming up all its courage before following again.

Draco didn't look down at the weightless, wilted girl in his arms—didn't even dare to glance. He stared straight ahead, his face showing nothing but dark determination as he carried her swiftly through the decorated corridors. Minutes passed, long, silent except for the echo of his footsteps and the strangled moans that the anxious house-elf couldn't restrain—moans that became louder the closer they got to those ominous stone steps that led down into darkness.

The gloomy stairwell was soon before them. Draco glared down to where the steps disappeared into shadow, lifted Hermione higher, held her tighter against his chest.

"Please, Master Draco," he heard the house-elf plead quietly from its cowering place behind him. "It is dangerous in the dungeon. The lady will freeze! She will suffer if you leave her there."

The words had Draco stiffening. She would suffer if he didn't. If the truth was discovered, a dungeon would be the least of either of their worries.

He stepped cautiously down—one step, then another, then another, until he was standing before the heavy door in its gothic stone frame. Thick wood panels were secured by tarnished metal and rounded nails, solid except for a small square cut out with vertical bars. Behind those bars, nothing was visible but black.

Adjusting the girl in his arms, Draco stepped closer, threw the heavy iron bolt back—pushed the heavy door, which creaked eerily as it opened. He stared a moment into the waiting blackness, banishing second thoughts—then slowly, carefully, willingly stepped into it.

The frigid air was degrees chiller than the rest of the drafty house; it instantly had his lungs aching, had his bare skin crawling with gooseflesh. The ominous sound of loose water dripping echoed in the silence, snow runoff that leaked in through cracks in the stone, and the scratching, squeaking echoes of scurrying mice lingered close to the ground. The scent of mold, of excrement—of death—lingered all around, but Draco didn't hesitate, didn't turn back. A whispered word had dim flames lighting the torches along the low walls, revealing the medieval cells in a dusky glow. Rusted bars gave way to stone chambers where iron cuffs sat empty and heavy chains rested, waiting to wrap around innocent skin like it had so many years ago.

Draco remained resolute, like the stone around him—forced himself to carry Hermione further into the dungeon, forced himself to lay her out carefully among the dirt and the dead rats on the cold ground. A thick layer of dirt was the only thing separating her warm skin from the cool stones: rodent filth and bits of earth that had trickled in through the cracks in the walls…

And bone dust from the mudbloods who had been shackled in these same irons, who had died forgotten in this same place centuries before…

Draco wouldn't let himself waver. "Chain her feet," he commanded quietly.

"But sir—!"

"Chain her feet, I said," he snapped at the nervous elf. The servant reluctantly went to obey, dragging the heavy metal cuffs across the ground, leaving trails in the dirt. He secured them around her bare ankles, tightening them until they were locked painfully against her skin.

Draco didn't look at the shackles—couldn't. If he did, he wasn't sure he'd able to bear it. He wasn't sure he'd be able to follow this through. So instead, he crouched down by her shoulder, tucking the curls that had fallen across her face behind her ear, stroking a tender hand over the black-and-blue.

_Beautiful…_

Slowly, his eyes fell to her bare neck, where his necklace had once resided, marking her, making her his. Not seeing it there, where it was meant to be, had emptiness curling in his stomach, had resentment burning holes in his heart. With dark, desperate eyes, he watched her closed eyelids, watched the serene tilt of her lips, so innocent and unaware. "You can take the necklace off," he told her quietly. "You can give it back, but it won't change anything. You'll always be mine." He nodded hauntedly to himself. "I'm going to do whatever it takes…"

_Whatever it takes… to keep you alive…_

The words were a promise, one she didn't hear, one she would never know about. She could never know what she truly meant to him. He would never say the words, never say more than he just had, never so that she—or anyone—could hear it.

Jaw set, eyes hardening again, he rose up off of his haunches and faced the elf. "Stay here," he instructed emotionlessly. "Watch her. Do what you can to keep her warm."

The servant's head swung rapidly back and forth. "But Squiggly is afraid of the dungeons, Master Draco," the creature pleaded desperately, its body quaking. "Squiggly is cold, sir. He is scared—"

"Watch her," Draco snapped, his voice impatient, his eyes unsympathetic. He was striding from the dungeons before he could falter, closing and bolting the heavy door behind him, shutting the elf—and Hermione—inside. He forced his feet to walk, forced himself up the steps and away from her—forced himself to do it with a cool, characteristic smirk on his face.

There was only one thing to do when you couldn't run _or _hide…

_Lie…_

* * *

His parents were waiting in silence in the drawing room, Lucius stiff, staring contemplatively into the ashen hearth, Narcissa at her writing table, composing the first of many long letters about the evening. They were still adorned in their evening finery—him in his velvet and silk, her in her designer gown.

Draco entered soundlessly, watching them for a moment with dark grey eyes. They were like statues from the gallery—beautiful, stately, but cold and hard as granite. He knew he'd have to be that same way—iced over, unreadable—knew Hermione and the truth were depending on it to shield them.

Well, if his parents had taught him anything, it was how to be aloof. He'd had a lifetime to learn by their example. And sadly—or, in this case, fortunately—playing the arrogant and apathetic prince now came as naturally to him as breathing.

He came forward, clearing his throat. "I understand you wanted to see me…?"

Lucius whipped around at the wry sound of his son's voice. "Yes," he snapped. "I wanted to see you—at the Emerald Ball," he specified pointedly.

Draco raised a brow. "Well I was there," he reminded his father amusedly. "In fact, I seem to recall us arriving together. Did you forget?"

"I remember," Lucius replied. "But when it was time to leave again, you were nowhere to be found." He crossed his arms expectantly. "Where did you disappear to, Draco?"

Draco only arched his brow higher. "Where do you think?"

Lucius smiled, but one corner of his mouth twitched with annoyance. "Oh, I don't know," he answered coolly. "Perhaps to drink yourself sick in an Irish tavern? Or to rut like a dog in a bordello in France? Or maybe to gamble your inheritance away in some back-alley game of craps?"

Draco plopped down onto the antique settee, casually sprawling himself out. "All worthy guesses. Too bad I didn't think of them myself." He sighed gravely. "Oh well. I suppose there's always next year."

Lucius' gaze narrowed. "So you're saying you came directly home?" he asked suspiciously. Draco merely looked at him with that drab smile. "What pressing business could you have _possibly_ had here that couldn't wait until after the ball?"

Draco shrugged a princely shoulder. "I was dying of boredom. And I'm sure you'll agree that nothing is more pressing than avoiding one's imminent death."

As usual, Lucius didn't find his son's impudence amusing. "Don't get cute," he snapped impatiently. "You embarrassed me. You _knew_ your presence was required tonight."

"Required? Please," Draco snorted. "They couldn't tell me from the next waltzing idiot being suffocated by his cravat."

"On the contrary," his father returned coldly. "Your absence was noted. Suffice it to say that it did not reflect well."

Draco sent his father a wry smile. "I'm sure you'll recover," he said blandly.

"Hmm," Lucius agreed mildly. His speculative silver gaze ran over his son. He was still wearing his dress pants, but they were wrinkled now instead of finely pressed, and their black hem was dusted with dirt. The older man's head tilted. "You've ruined your trousers," he observed, nodding skeptically to them. "What have you been doing?"

Draco knew this was the moment of truth—or, rather, the moment of deception. He sat up, smiled stiffly, using his resentment instead of disguising it. "Getting my hands dirty," he informed his father tightly. "The evening took a few… unexpected turns."

Lucius' gaze sharpened. "Oh?"

"Yes, oh," Draco said back. He shook his head, let out a harsh little laugh. "I came home thinking I was escaping my societal duties—only to have to play the proper host for our little houseguest when I arrived."

Lucius went still, but his silver eyes went razor-sharp. "Houseguest?" he asked through his teeth. "What _houseguest_?"

Draco kept his gaze cool. There was no way out now—no going back. "A friend from school," he said after a moment. He cracked an arrogant grin. "Or, rather, an enemy."

Lucius' lip was curling. "I have no patience for your little riddles. _Who_ is here?" he demanded harshly.

Draco swallowed, managing to keep the bile down—managing to keep the cavalier look on his face. "Hermione Granger."

That had Narcissa's eyes snapping up from her stationary—had Lucius' going wide and incensed. "Potter's bitch?" he roared at his son. "You dare to bring that mudblood whore into my house?"

Draco rose, looking calm and satisfied. "Into the dungeon, to be precise."

"Dear God," Narcissa whispered, holding a hand to her chest.

Lucius was shaking his head, was pointing a ringed finger that quaked violently with restrained rage. "You've gone too far this time, Draco," he swore. "Do you know what you've done! What were you thinking, bringing her here—taking her captive? A girl like that will surely be missed! The Ministry will be knocking on _our _door, tearing _our _home to shreds."

"You know I'd never let that happen."

"Do I?" Lucius bit back in disgust.

Draco's smile was placid. "Your faith in me is touching," he stated dryly. But the brutal look on his father's face had him slowly sobering, had his smile turning tight. "To be fair, I was perfectly within my rights," he went on crisply. "_She_ was the one trespassing. I found her snooping around here, looking for evidence to condemn us all."

"What!" Lucius brought a hand up to press his fingers into his eyes, exhaling deeply, his jaw clenching tight. Tense moments passed. Patience came, but only barely. He let his hand lower, and when he spoke again, his voice was quiet with forced calm. "She didn't find anything, I gather," he said through his teeth.

"Who do you think you're talking to?" Draco returned with an arrogant smirk. Slowly, casually, he began to circle the room. "I'm not ashamed to admit I enjoyed every second of…" A smile haunted his lips. "Of _interviewing_ her. You have no idea what it's been like having to share a dormitory with that _thing_." He shook his head, as if trying to shake off filth. "I was glad to finally have a reason to shut her up."

"You sedated her?" Narcissa asked, wary, looking at her son as if she didn't recognize him.

"Thoroughly," Draco assured her darkly. "She'll be out until at least the afternoon." He turned to his father, who was watching him malevolently through slitted eyes. "As much as I would have loved to hear the mudblood scream, I thought you would rather her remain unseen and unheard." He forced himself to grin. "Almost as if she was never here at all."

"I would _rather_ you have threatened to call the authorities and sent her on her way," his father spat. "That would have been the _conventional_ response."

Draco merely shrugged. "I'm not a conventional sort of man," he said.

Lucius crossed his arms, the muscles at the back of his jaw tensing, clenching tight. No, his volatile son had never been conventional. He'd been bending rules and breaking laws for as long as the older man could remember…

He'd been suspicious after his peculiar conversation with the Dark Lord earlier in the evening. It had come like an omen, a warning—of what, he hadn't been sure. The Master had advised him to prepare for something unexpected—but this scenario would have _never_ crossed his mind.

If it had been a few hours ago, he would have made Draco answer for his dangerous, impetuous behavior. But he was familiar enough with piecing puzzles together to know that this was part of a bigger picture—one he was sure not even Draco had been permitted to see. The Dark Lord had the maddening tendency to keep people out of the loop and on the edge of their seats…

But all would reveal itself in time, Lucius knew. Until then, he would have to do as he was told.

_Go on about your business. Let Draco go on about his…_

Lucius shook his head, exhaling slowly on something close to a sigh. "You rash, thoughtless boy," he accused—but quietly, thoughtfully. "All this time, and you still won't think before you act." He looked his son up and down skeptically, wondering how capable he was of bearing the consequences, the ones no one but Voldemort could contrive. "She'll go crying to the authorities," he predicted. "She'll spoil everything we have planned."

Draco could see the violence dissipate, the danger wane into grim acceptance. He was gaining ground. "No she won't," he reassured his father. "She isn't here. She never was—A swift memory spell will see to that." His voice was firm now, hard and certain, trying to convince the older man that he was competent enough to take care of this on his own. "She'll wake up tomorrow, safe and cozy in her little bed—and whatever justice was dealt her tonight will be so far removed from her brain that she won't even remember enough to think it was a dream."

"She better not remember _any_," Lucius threatened, quiet, dead.

Draco looked straight into his eyes. "That can be arranged."

A long moment passed, heavy, tense—one man waiting, secretly desperate for the other's consent. Finally, Lucius nodded. "Arrange it then," he said. Draco nodded once and turned to exit, burying any sign of relief. "But don't mistake this for approval," his father's voice halted him. Slowly, he turned back to face the stern sound. "I'd be dealing with this my own way if I had anything to say about it. However, the Dark Lord has privately expressed his wish that I not stand in the way of your impulsive little exploits." His gaze was dark and doubtful. "He seems to think they'll be beneficial in some way."

Draco smiled bitterly. "And I can only imagine how much that must irk you after all the trouble you went to to make me more like you."

Fire lit again in the ice of Lucius' eyes. "I wouldn't try my patience any further, Draco," he warned quietly. "You've already spread it uncharacteristically thin." His gaze whipped to the woman who was watching the scene warily, his hand reaching out for hers with the command of a king. "Come Narcissa. It's time for bed," he told her. He looked back to Draco. "We'll stay out of this sordid business—brash and inappropriate as it is. But I can't promise I'll be so forgiving if I find the girl is still on the premises after tomorrow." His nose crinkled, as if it smelled something foul. "If it wasn't for the Dark Lord, I wouldn't have let it stand tonight."

"Well I'll be sure to thank him," Draco said tightly.

Lucius' gaze was narrowed meaningfully on his son. "I wouldn't if I were you. I'd keep my mouth shut." He tilted his head. "She isn't here, remember? She never was."

Draco's jaw clenched as his parents walked regally around him, heading through the drawing room doors and out of sight. Once they were gone, so was the apathetic mask—but he didn't breathe, didn't have time to feel relieved. This wasn't over, wasn't even close. As long as Hermione was in the dungeon—in the manor—she wasn't safe.

Troubled, he lowered back onto the settee. What to do from here? Where to go, where to take her? He only had until sunrise to figure it out…

* * *

Hermione lay sleeping on the ground of the dank dungeon, blissfully unaware of her sinister surroundings. The sedation spell was strong, letting her breathe calmly despite the icy air that frosted her lungs and the heavy chains that bruised her skin, letting her rest peacefully despite the gnawing attention of the rats, despite the dirt, despite the dark. Her body shivered violently, trying to fight off the cold she couldn't feel—but she didn't wake, didn't even begin to stir. She was totally relaxed, as if sleeping on a cloud instead of a cold stone floor. Her mind was moving slow, almost still… beyond nightmares, even beyond dreams, in a blank, warm place where everything was serene and secure…

So she did not awaken when a tall hooded figure rose like smoke from out of the shadows and into the dim firelight. The trembling house-elf, however, quickly cowered away—not quickly enough. The harmless creature was taken care of in one swift and fatal flash of green light.

Distractions dealt with, the figure turned on Hermione, stalking forward until it towered over her unconscious form. It watched her for a moment from behind the shadow of its hood—watched with black-hole eyes that burned. It raised its wand. A whispered word had the tip becoming sharp like a blade—and for a moment, the shadow lingered, as if he would use the weapon to stab the girl. Instead, he suddenly stabbed clear through the palm of his own hand, smiling over gritted teeth as the point went in one side and out the other—then expelling a breath as, just as swiftly, it slid back out. Blood instantly pulsed from both sides of the wound, deep red against lily white—proving that this dark form was flesh and blood, that he was something far realer than merely a shadow…

Flesh and blood, but not necessarily a man. Humanity was not gauged in the body, but the soul.

With another movement, a familiar vial of blood was drawn out into the fading torchlight, the reflection of dim flames glowing in the glass. Raising the thing up, the figure ripped the cork out with his teeth—spat it off to the side, where it landed forgotten in the dirt. Quickly, he turned his palm, opening it over the already-full vial, combining his blood with hers until it overflowed.

A quick incantation had the hole sealed and stitched—and yet another had a small, rickety wooden table conjured out of air. Rows of jars and casks were pressed together on its surface— silent, focused, the figure placed his wand and the open phial among them.

He took up another container, a green glass jar without a label, unscrewed the rusted cover. Pale fingers reached in, grasping a pinch of powder. "The crushed petals of sunflower to bind us in life," he said quietly, drawing his hand out, sprinkling the delicate yellow into the phial with the blood.

He returned the jar to its place, retrieving another, this one larger. This time, his hand drew out a single round black berry. "The toxic juice of nightshade to bind us in death..." Gaunt fingertips slowly squeezed the belladonna's fruit over the vial until careful beads of black liquid fell.

Taking the phial up, he cautiously swirled it, letting the ingredients blend thoroughly into the blood. With narrowed eyes, he watched it settle—then smiled, raising the thing to his lips, drinking half of the red contents down. He swallowed slowly, relishing the copper taste of blood and poison—relishing the sweet hint of victory, which seemed closer now than ever.

A moment passed. Carefully, the figure lowered onto his haunches, holding the sleeping girls head up by her hair, holding the vial to her lips. "Drink," he commanded quietly, forcing the rest of the red into her mouth—and she did, swallowing the blood unconsciously.

Another moment passed. Crisply, the shadow snapped a finger. A flower appeared, its stem short, its ivory petals open around its yellow face. "A white lotus—" he took the bloom, "to seal the pact…" He reached within the folds of his dark and regal robe, produced a silver sewing pin. Taking Hermione's limp hand, he pricked the delicate tip of her index finger, guided it carefully to the flower, smearing the dark dot of blood that appeared onto one thin petal. Dropping her hand, he turned the minute point on himself, piercing the pale end of his own finger and daubing the speck of red onto one of the petals on the opposite side.

He could feel the tiny taste of belladonna begin to churn his stomach, but it was the anticipation that had him growing eager. Pushing himself up, he grabbed his wand from the table—pointed it at the lotus with intense, impatient eyes. "_Cum sanguis sanguine, una vita unit!_" he whispered, and black shot from the tip—not light, but something darker, something like steam or smoke, wisping slowly forward, falling over the flower, seeping in. The ivory petals absorbed the strange strings of twining shadow, beginning to change, darkening until the entire bloom was black.

And just as slowly, he felt exhaustion fall over him, staggering, powerful, threatening to persuade him to sleep. Willpower kept him upright, kept his eyes open, fighting off what seemed to be the affects of some strong sedating drug…

Or some strong sedating _spell_.

His eyelids flickered, and he briefly let them close. Could it be…? He swallowed, suddenly more cautious than he'd ever been.

Through the sudden weight of drowsiness, he became aware of a growing ache—the twinge of dull pain at his temple and along the side of his face. Reaching up, he pressed a tender hand to his cheekbone. It was sore to the touch. His gaze shot back to the girl, sharpening, his breath holding, not yet daring to exhale—searching the darkened marks that bruised that same side of her face.

Still, he didn't dare breathe. Eyes alert, he strode to her, crouched down by her again—seized her wrist, brought it close under his hazy eyes…

And exhaled finally on a whisper of a laugh.

Because on either side of her hand was a small, newly-stitched wound—puncture wounds, as if she'd been stabbed straight through the palm and out the back of the hand…

Puncture wounds identical to his!

He threw his head back, laughing quietly, silkily—then brought his eyes back down to consider the girl. Her body trembled and her teeth chattered against the cold, but he knew she was too deep under to be aware. Carefully, he tucked her hand back with the other one. "You sleep easy now, girl," he mused softly, bitingly. "But you're about to awaken into your worst nightmare." One long white hand moved over her head, slowly, affectionately stroking her soft curls. He raised one wavy strand away from her ear, leaned in ever so slowly. "_Sweet dreams_," he sang quietly...

And then disappeared.


	17. Secrets and Schemes

_Saving You Summary—DMHG. Hermione Granger has a secret, one that's literally killing her: she has been suffering extreme abuse at the hands of her father. Who will come to her rescue? What if the only one who can is Draco Malfoy? Rated M for sexual content (including rape), suicide ideation, and violence._

_Disclaimer—Most of the characters and a lot of the setting belong to J.K. Rowling. The rest is mine._

A/N: Last updated May 30, 2011.

* * *

**:::Secrets and Schemes:::**

The instant the little hand reached the four, Ron's alarm clock went into a tailspin. Groaning grumpily, he felt blindly around for the thing, slamming his hand against the button once his fingers found it, shutting off the shrill, invasive sound. Sniffing, he resituated himself on his pillow, dragging the blankets higher until they were tucked tightly under his chin. He ignored the shuffling sound that came from where Harry's makeshift bed was against the wall, easily beginning to drift back into sleep.

"Get up, Ron…" his friend urged quietly. "It's time to go."

The redhead cracked one baleful eye open, watching resentfully through the darkness as Harry slipped his feet into a pair of heavy snow boots. He closed it again, making a face. "Do we _have_ to?" he whined. "Its so early! Let's just give her the presents when we see her later..."

"This was your idea," Harry reminded his friend pointedly. "What was it you said—if we can't bring Hermione to Christmas, we have to bring Christmas to Hermione." He smiled at the strangled sound that came from across the room. "Yep," he said dryly, "I'm pretty sure that was it."

Ron yanked the blankets all the way over his head. "I said it in theory," his muffled voice came from underneath. "I take it back."

Harry pulled on his overcoat. "Come on. Think how happy it'll make her, having all the usual trimmings. Waking up and finding all her presents under a tree—and being able to eat a slice of pie with breakfast like we do every year. It's tradition, Ron." He slid mittens over his hands. "Think of the smile that will be on her face when she sees it. She'll be so surprised."

Slowly Ron drew the blankets back down, just enough for his blue eyes to peek out. The pointed look on Harry's face—and the thought of Hermione's delighted, unguarded smile—finally forced him to relent. "Fine, fine," he sighed, his shoulders sagging as he brought the covers all the way down. "I'm getting up."

Minutes later, both boys were trudging silently down the stairs in their scarves and hats, the blue-eyed man's gaze grumpy, drowsy; the green-eyed one's dry and dull after spending hours wide awake, without so much as a wink of sleep.

"So what's the game plan?" Ron asked, carefully piling Hermione's gifts up until they were stacked like a precarious Jenga tower in his arms.

Harry was at the corner of the living room, where a miniature evergreen sat with fallen needles at its base. He and Ron had each chipped in for an extra, smaller tree when they'd come up with this little scheme on the Weasleys annual trip to the tree farm. He lifted the thing up over his shoulder, ignoring the gentle poke of green spines against his cheek. "Tree first—" he answered, "then presents—pies in the kitchen. I'll write a quick note, and that'll be it. In and out."

"With the stealth of a shadow…" Ron agreed in a theatrical whisper. His friend raised a brow at the silly attempt at intrigue—causing the redhead's dark-blue eyes to narrow. "Excuse me for trying to make being awake at this ungodly hour a bit more interesting," he declared grudgingly.

"You're excused," Harry said back, only enhancing Ron's grumpy gaze. "Are you ready?" he asked, his skeptical gaze watching the unsteady pile of packages balanced in his friend's uncertain grasp.

Ron swallowed, looking at the tower less than confidently. "Ready."

Harry nodded once, then disapparated, silent, clean—and Ron followed immediately after with a resounding _crack_. They appeared moments later on the snow-covered sidewalk outside of Hermione's house.

"Damn these boots," Ron swore, feeling ice water seep in through a hole in one of them. He wiggled his toes, now soaked and cold. "They're crap! I should have borrowed Fred's." Heaving a frustrated sigh, he began to step forward towards the snow-dusted steps. "Let's just get this over with…" He pushed his way through the little white gate, edging carefully down the stone path.

But Harry didn't move. He stayed where he was, his gaze narrowed on the familiar house. "The lights," he observed quietly, perplexedly. "They're on."

Ron stopped, his blue eyes peering around the stack of boxes in his arms—then rolling, annoyed as they took in the warm glow that lit up the first-floor windows. "Brilliant," he bit off. "Up before the sun, wading through the snow in the freezing _bloody_ cold, and in the end we can't even go through with the damn thing!"

Harry was silent, his eyes still watching the house. "It's barely four o'clock," he muttered. "Why would anyone be awake?"

Ron shrugged a shoulder—quickly adjusted the mountain of wrapped gifts that threatened to tumble because of the movement. "Her dad's car is here," he said, nodding to it once he'd maintained his balance. "Maybe he just got back."

But the vehicle parked at the curb was dusted with a thin layer of snow. Hermione's father had to have been there for a few hours, at least.

Ron saw the unsatisfied look in friend's eyes at the explanation. "I don't know—what does it matter?" he complained. "One of them's awake. Might as well just head back now." He began to shift restlessly when Harry didn't move, didn't take his focused eyes off the house. "There's no way I'm standing and waiting it out in this weather," he insisted. "We can give Hermione everything when we see her later today."

Harry lowered the tree from its place on his shoulder, propped it up carefully against one of the brick posts that guarded the short pathway up to the house. "Hold on." Cautiously, he moved forward, pushing through the gate, climbing the steps and leaning over the handrail to look inside the windows. The room beyond the drawn curtains was white with light—but neither Hermione nor her father were anywhere to be found. "I don't see anyone," he said with furrowed brows.

Slowly—carefully—Ron followed his friend up the snow-covered steps. "Maybe they forgot the light before they went up."

"Maybe," Harry agreed, but the frown still haunted his face.

"Probably," Ron corrected. He glanced at the window, then back. "Proceed with caution?" he proposed hopefully, eager to get the heavy presents out of his hands, eager to get his hands out of the cold.

Harry swallowed. After a few long moments, he sighed, shrugged. "Might as well." His eyes went warily back down the steps to where the small Christmas tree rested in the gentle lamplight. "I need to grab the tree. You go on in. Quietly," he added with a pointed look. "Start setting up as long as the coast is clear."

Ron nodded, disapparating with a pop, leaving Harry to slowly tramp back down the steps for the tree. He'd barely made it off the last step when the sound of the front door being thrown open came from behind him. His gaze snapped around, narrowing as it found Ron's suddenly rigid form in the open doorway, silhouetted in the light.

"Get in here," he ordered, and then was gone.

Harry swallowed. He watched the empty doorway, hesitating for half a moment, half of a half—stiff, silent—slowly, suddenly filling with dread…

And then he was bolting up the stairs and into the house, his gaze sharp, alert, his hand instinctively clutching his wand. What he found only made his heart drop lower into his stomach.

The tower of boxes that had been so carefully piled up in Ron's arms was scattered on the ground now, dropped—forgotten…

Because there at the edge of the room, Hermione's father was curled up on the carpet, his head on the floor, his curved back against the wall. At least, Harry _thought_ it was Hermione's father. His face was bruised, swollen almost beyond recognition, dark purple and blue forming like patchwork from his graying hairline to his bristled jaw. Blood was drying in his nostrils, on his lips, against one cheek, and water was leaking like thin streams from his swollen eyes. His clothes were equally tattered, the top buttons of his shirt torn—the crotch of his pants soaked in what could only be his own urine. His body shivered violently, as if riddled with ice on the inside, and his breath tore in and out as if he struggled to inhale. There was another texture, too, clinging to one corner of his mouth—and Harry knew immediately that the man had been sick.

"Find Hermione," he commanded shortly, but Ron didn't have to be told; he was already running up the stairs.

Harry heard his friend's rushed footsteps pound up the steps, heard them tread heavily, hurriedly on the ceiling overhead. But he didn't take his eyes off the shuddering man. His gaze found the puddle of vomit that sat just beyond where the older man's head lay—and swallowed down his own nausea at the images flashing in his mind. His heart pounding, he fought to maintain composure, fought to conquer the dread with determined control.

Once he'd managed some semblance of it, he began to stride forward.

But Hermione's father began to scramble away, desperate and whimpering, his wet, swollen-over eyes widening with renewed terror.

Harry slowed. "I'm not going to hurt you," he tried to assure the man quietly. He took another careful step forward, but Hermione's father only continued to try to crawl away. His panicked eyes didn't watch Harry, but the wand held white-knuckled in Harry's grasp, his head shaking frantically back and forth as he beheld the weapon, refusing, wanting to ward the danger away.

"Easy," Harry soothed. "Easy. I'm putting the wand down." Slowly, he bent, laying it on the ground, shoving it so that it rolled out of reach. He rose again, putting his hands up, showing the man that he meant him no harm. "I'm going to come towards you now," he told the man gently. "Don't be afraid." He began to edge forward, cautious, hands still in the air, lowering onto his haunches once he'd reached the crumpled man.

The bruises were so much more vicious up close, but Harry didn't let the dismay win him over. No, he stayed calm, even as his blood pumped urgently under his skin, even as his ears took in the sound of Ron's desperate footsteps on the ceiling, searching the floor above in vain. He busied himself with checking the battered man for any serious injuries, his hands lightly, persistently inspecting bruised skin and sore bones, ignoring the quivering way his patient flinched at being touched. Harry spoke to him, his voice quiet, deceptively calm. "Do you remember me? I'm a friend of your daughter's."

The entranced man seemed to wake, seemed to remember his child for the first time, his eyelids lowering exhaustedly and in pain. "Hermione…" he moaned, his voice seeming as bruised and broken as the rest of him.

Footsteps stormed down the staircase. "She's not here," Ron's urgent, out-of-breath voice came from behind them. "I've looked everywhere, Harry."

"Hermione…" her father repeated, beckoning her as if she was waiting somewhere nearby. But no one appeared.

"Yes—Hermione. _Where_ is Hermione?" Ron pressed before the man's eyes could go out of focus. "Where is she?"

A long time passed, breathless pants the only sound. "Gone," the defeated man answered at last.

The boys' dark eyes snapped to each other, then back again. "Tell us what happened," Harry commanded quietly. "From the beginning."

Hermione's father shook his head. He didn't want to talk about it, didn't want to think about it. "A man… broke in…" He trailed off, not wanting to go on, not wanting to remember.

"What man?" Harry urged, his voice tense, trying to be gentle.

Tears rolled over the bruises. "A man… a _wizard_…" he rasped with a mix of fear and loathing. He swallowed again, gulping down a new wave of nausea. "He took her from me. I tried to stop him, but…" He shook his head again, unable to form the words, unable to voice that kind of indescribable pain.

He didn't have to. The damage on his face was enough to paint the picture for the younger men. There had been a ruthless beating—of that there was no doubt. And both boys knew without him having to say it that a certain unforgivable curse had brought about the vomit on the floor and the unmistakable wet stain in his lap.

His utter terror at the mere sight of a wand had said that for him.

Ron was pacing frantically back and forth, restless with all the miserable possibilities that were running through his mind. "What are we going to do?" he swore loudly. "She could be anywhere—with anyone! Christ, she could be with—"

"Tell me about the man," Harry said before his friend could utter the words _You-Know-Who_. He wouldn't let himself go there, wouldn't let himself unravel. He stayed on his haunches, kept his focus steady on Hermione's dad. "What do you remember?"

The man's adrenaline was finally wearing out. "I don't know…" His eyes were closing. He was losing consciousness.

Harry took him by the shoulders, shook him a little, forced his swollen gaze back up to meet his emerald one. "This is really important, okay?" he said slowly, as if speaking to a child. "Hermione needs you to remember. She's counting on you." The man nodded, but began to loll again, forcing Harry to hold him up. "Anything you can tell us," the green-eyed boy pressed. "What he looked like, what he sounded like, what he was wearing. Anything you can remember—anything at all."

The older man's bruised eyes blinked drowsily, thoughtfully. A line appeared between his furrowed brows. "Pale hair," he whispered at last, swallowing heavily. "Pale eyes. Silver," he recalled. "Like a wolf." He shuddered at the memory of that dark and menacing gaze.

The words had Harry bringing his hand to his face, had his fingers pressing into the eyelids under his round-rimmed spectacles. It only took a moment longer for Ron to connect the dots, as well. In an instant, the redhead was a red-hot firestorm of fury. "That_ bastard!_"

"You know him?" The fading man asked, his desperate eyes trying to stay open, trying to cling to consciousness. They couldn't quite manage to stay apart. His eyelids began to droop, his breath slowly tumbling in and out now. "Who…" The world around him was becoming blurry. "Who is he? Who... has her?"

The scar-faced boy didn't answer, only gently patted one sagging shoulder. "You did good," he promised—just before the man slumped forward and slipped into unconsciousness. Catching him by the shoulders, Harry eased him carefully down to the floor.

Ron was pacing like a madman, back and forth, back and forth. "What the bloody hell is Malfoy playing at?" he demanded wildly.

Harry didn't know. All of a sudden, he wasn't sure of anything.

He looked the sleeping man over one final time—then shot to his feet, crossed the room towards the telephone. "He needs an ambulance."

"So will that _dirty snake_ once I get through with him!" Ron spat furiously. "If he's left so much as a _fingerprint_ on Hermione, I'll rip him to pieces. I'll rip him to pieces anyway!"

Harry met his friend's violent eyes. "We'll get her back, Ron. But he needs a hospital first," he said seriously, nodding warily to the body that lay like a stone on the floor.

Ron's hesitant gaze went to their friend's father. The man looked as if he was barely breathing, and if those nasty bruises at his temples were any indication, he was definitely concussed. He needed medical attention—needed someone to watch over him, if only to make sure he woke back up.

The blue-eyed boy finally forced himself to nod. "St. Mungo's—or St. Helier Memorial," he suggested.

Harry reached for the phone, determinedly picking up the receiver with one hand, clenching the spiral cord in the other. "No. A muggle hospital," he said.

Ron faced him, his eyes going wide. "With their idiot doctors? They won't know what to do, not for _this_," he cried, motioning wildly to the man crumpled on the floor—referring to the torturous curse that had left him there that way.

"There _is_ nothing to do," Harry insisted quietly. "They'll clean him up, give him something for the pain."

Ron was sputtering, incredulous at his friend's calm—damn near _casual_—demeanor. "But the Aurors… they'll want to talk to him," he reasoned.

"That's why we're doing it this way," Harry said decisively. He stuck his index finger into the _9 _slot of the old rotary dial, dragging it around—then removed his hand, letting the thing rotate back to its proper place. It seemed to take a century to get there. When it did, he repeated the action—waited another century—repeated it again. "We're not bringing the Aurors into this," he stated grimly.

"What!"

Harry only watched his red-faced friend, listening as the dial tone finally transformed into a ring. At last, a woman's voice answered on the other end. "Hello, emergency? Someone's broken into my house," he told her calmly. "I've been injured—I need an ambulance right away. 85 Beaconsfield Road. Please hurry." He hung up, ignoring the sound of the dispatcher urging him to stay on the line.

Striding forward, he grabbed his wand up from where it had rolled. "They're on their way. We should go."

But Ron wasn't budging. "What do you mean, _no Aurors_?" he persisted angrily. "You're mental if you think I'm gonna listen to bollocks like that! This isn't just a schoolroom spat anymore, mate. This is serious—maybe even life and death!" He let out a strangled cry when his friend remained silent. "Christ! Look at him, Harry!" He threw his arm out, gesturing towards the unconscious man. "He's been beaten to a pulp, cursed within an inch of his life! And God only knows what Hermione looks like and what she's been through! We need to get help!" he insisted. "We need to get her back!"

"And we will," Harry assured him. "We'll go to Malfoy Manor. We'll talk to Malfoy ourselves."

"_Talk?_" the redhead fumed, incredulous. "I'm going to tear the fucking sod limb from limb!"

The black-haired boy frowned. The evidence against Malfoy was certainly damning. Why, the victim had all but named him as the assailant! It was enough to convince his hotheaded friend, but Harry wasn't as quick to jump to the obvious conclusions. There were other puzzle pieces that didn't fit with these new ones—like the longing way Malfoy looked at Hermione when he thought no one was looking, the way he secretly watched over her day after day. The man had _saved_ her _life_. Why would he put that life in danger now? Why, when everything he'd done up to this point said that he might actually _care_ for her? Why, when her sad eyes said that she felt the same way?

If this was an act, then it was the grandest one ever performed…

But Harry wouldn't put it past him. All his initial suspicions and concerns about the Slytherin Prince still had their basis—had it now more than ever. The Malfoy he'd always known was more than capable of beating an innocent man down, of kidnapping a defenseless girl for no reason at all except that he had the impulse to—for no reason at all except that he thought it a good game.

And suddenly, Harry was shaking his head at his own naivety. Ron was right. What was he thinking, risking Hermione's safety—her _life_? For what, to give that _bastard_ the benefit of the doubt? What had _Malfoy_ ever done to deserve such generosity, such _confidence_? Had he answered Harry's questions? Had he respected his wishes where Hermione was concerned? No. Not once. The ferret had had the damn gall to be _flippant_!

And that was the heart of it, wasn't it? Malfoy had never actually _said_ he cared for Hermione. On the contrary, his every word about her had been crude and cavalier, at best. He hadn't given any outward indication that things had changed—that _he_ had changed—nothing but hidden haunted looks and possessive clenches of jaw for Harry to interpret. The emerald-eyed man would have to be insane, forgetting seven years of callousness and indifference, trusting a few short months of uncertain signs and questionable intentions instead.

And still, he couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to this than met the eye…

"I'll go straight to the manor," he decided at last. "You get Law Enforcement and meet me there." Grave emerald eyes met stormy ocean ones. "One way or another, this _will_ be sorted out."

* * *

The sun had yet to peek out over the horizon, but Draco could feel the minutes dwindling away. The hours were escaping, making it seem a straightforward task.

But he knew better. Escape wasn't as simple as time made it seem.

He hated that Hermione was still down there, fettered to the frozen floor—hated that he had left her there, hated that he had put her there to begin with. He hadn't been able to secure the chains himself, hadn't been able to bring himself to even look at the rusted cuffs that squeezed her delicate skin. But he felt them anyway, wrapping around his own ankles, heavy, holding him in place—felt them locking around his heart, suffocating it completely. There was no mistaking or escaping it. He was the one responsible. And he was just as responsible for getting her _out_ of that hell as he had been for locking her in it.

If only it could be as simple as unlocking a door... But it wasn't, not in the least. One wrong move, one thoughtless decision, could mean damage beyond repair. The stakes were rising with each passing moment. Things had gone too far and become too dangerous to risk with his usual lack of concern for the consequences. That was what had gotten them into this mess—he was far too aware of the possibilities to think it would help them back out of it. Caution was key now…

It had been all along, really. He just hadn't wanted to face losing her. He'd been reckless, selfish… saying goodbye again and again, and yet never quite letting her go.

Draco shook his head, pressed his fingers into his eyes. There wasn't time for guilt. He needed a plan.

Returning her to her father's house was out of the question. He didn't care how incapacitated the bastard was—didn't care that the he was probably nothing more than a bloody puddle on the floor. She _would not _go back there. Ever. Again.

The Burrow was one option—she'd be safe with sainted Potter and the nurturing Weasley brood. But sneaking her into a house as small and as crowded as that would be difficult. The chances that he'd be discovered during the drop were more likely than not—and explanations would prove futile, not only to them but to the authorities they would no doubt summon to arrest him.

Even if they _did_ believe him, it would mean telling the truth. And once the words were verbalized, there was no telling who would discover them next…

He could find a safe house for her, perhaps. Check her into a room at an inn somewhere close by, some place where she could stay under an assumed name until he found a more favorable solution…

Or he could bring her back to Hogwarts, he thought suddenly. He swallowed slowly. Yes—that was his best alternative.

Without wasting time on another thought, he shot up from his seat, long, determined strides bringing him to the heavy doors.

"Going somewhere, Draco?"

A quiet voice from behind him had him instantly freezing, had the heated blood turning instantly icy in his veins. Dread threatened to burst his beating heart, but within half a moment, he had reined in his racing heartbeat, had relaxed the tension that stiffened his body, had unclenched his jaw and eased a casual look onto his stony face. Slowly, deliberately, he turned to face the oil-smooth sound.

"To bed," he informed the pallid man that was waiting there. He raised a brow, bent his head with playful deference. "My lord," he greeted, putting on a small smile.

The skeleton man stood across the dimly lit room, before the fireplace, his gaunt form robed in sweeping black velvet, his sunken features obscured in the shadow of his hood. Unlike their past meetings, he made no move to lower the thick fabric away from his face, leaving the Master's expressions mostly in darkness.

"To bed?" Draco heard him question amusedly. "A bit early, isn't it?"

"I could say the same to you." Draco's gaze flickered down, noticing the strange decoration pinned to the other man's lapel—a boutonniere with petals as black as the night. He let his eyes narrow speculatively, but was careful to keep the casual grin on his face as he brought them back up. "I'm surprised to see you here," he admitted mildly at last.

The eerie curve of Voldemort's lips was barely visible in the lamplight. "You are, aren't you?" he realized affectionately. "How charming." He stepped forward, slowly, almost carefully, and gripped the wooden frame of a nearby chair with the long fingers of one hand.

Draco watched that hand for a moment, wondering, but didn't let it linger long enough to project suspicion or cause offense. "What brings you to us at this hour?" he asked lightly instead, bringing his gaze back up to peer into the darkness of the hood.

"I was in the neighborhood," the Dark Lord answered evasively. "Thought I'd drop by for one of our nightcaps."

Draco looked on wryly. "If you wish." He turned, going casually to an antique cabinet where, behind the wooden doors, tall bottles of liquor stood in straight rows. He took one up, an empty snifter with it, uncorking the first and pouring smooth amber into the second. When he was done, he turned, going across the room, holding out the glass for the other man to take.

The Dark Lord accepted it with an even smile, one that was far too pleasant for Draco's liking, and the younger man was struck with the sudden thought that he might not be the only one pasting on facades.

He backed away, keeping his mind blank, keeping his thoughts casual and on anything other than the girl that lay chained below their feet. "That's an interesting boutonniere," he said at long last when the rail-like man neither spoke nor sipped. "Unusual." His eyes narrowed on the black thing. "A lotus, isn't it?"

One corner of Voldemort's lips tilted up tiredly until it had almost disappeared in the shadow cast by his hood. "It is," he answered quietly, finally. Slowly he raised the rim of his glass to his lips, taking only the barest of sips. The silence was so thick that the sound of his swallow seemed to echo. "A magnificent little thing, the lotus," he went on after a moment, lowering the snifter. "It grows deep beneath the water's murky depths—and yet it blooms in the sunshine beyond the surface. It dwells in both the darkness and the light," he explained with a smile. "Much like the soul dwells both in death and in life." His pale hand swirled the brandy in his glass slowly and with the superiority of a king. "That is why centuries of cultures have revered the plant as sacred," he said quietly. "It is a physical representation of the human soul…"

One of Draco's blond brows arched up dryly, and he regarded the decoration with a measure of amusement. "Why is it black?" he asked, his head tilting slightly.

The Dark Lord's smile was faint and full of secrets. "Which—" he returned amusedly, "my boutonniere or my soul?" The younger man was automatically opening his mouth to backpedal, but the silk-smooth laughter that slithered out from under the hood halted his explanation in place. "No matter—the answer is the same for both," the gaunt man intervened with good humor. But then he paused, sobering, becoming thoughtful. "They are what I made them, Draco," he explained finally, his voice quiet and somehow simmering. "One can only dwell in darkness so much for so long before he begins to blacken everything he touches."

But Draco didn't need to be told—he was already bitterly aware of that fact. After all, he himself had been touched by the Dark Lord—shrouded by him, darkened by him… destroyed. And now, everything that _Draco_ touched would turn to darkness. The Mark on his arm was an infection. He could do nothing but poison the people he tried to hold, to love.

But he didn't think about that now, didn't think about anything. He kept his mind remote, kept himself empty, kept his thoughts and feelings locked safely behind stone. He was cool, calm, and completely controlled—expertly casual, expertly aloof. There had to be hope for Hermione—there _had _to be. As long as he kept her out of his mind, kept her safe, she could still escape the venomous black that he couldn't.

The cool smile remained on his lips. "A regular Midas," he said blandly.

The Dark Lord chuckled, the sound wearier than usual. "Quite," he agreed as he raised the glass again. Only this time he angled it high and threw his head back, letting the whole contents of the snifter slide down his throat. The dark hood fell back, dropping down upon sharp shoulders, finally revealing that sallow face in the lamplight…

That sallow face colored with a shock of black bruises.

Draco's smile slowly faded. The room was illuminated only in pale candlelight and the barest hint of color that tints the sky before the sunrise—yet he had no trouble seeing past the dim firelight to the brutal blue that darkened one side of the Master's face. Color extended across his pallid skin like a shadow—over his chin, touching one corner of his thin smile, spreading over his cheek, stretching across his temple to where the handsome Tom Riddle's hairline must have once resided.

"Your face…" He frowned, his alert eyes scouring the damage, then traveling, meeting the Dark Lord's always-piercing eyes. They seemed weary, Draco realized skeptically, more so than they'd ever been before, the glittering black seeming now opaque and lethargic. His brows furrowed skeptically. "What happened?" he asked.

The Dark Lord's smile was slow and languid. "What, this?" He motioned heavily to the marks, then waved a dismissive hand. "The price of doing business, I'm afraid."

But Draco didn't dare smile back. Chills were crawling down his spine like cold caterpillars on a brittle stem. There wasn't any man alive more infamously capable of or concerned with preserving himself than the Dark Lord. No one touched him—they couldn't even if they tried. So if he was hurt, it was because he had _let _someone hurt him. If he was bruised, it was because he had _wanted _to be bruised.

Something was afoot…

But Draco didn't let on. He just kept himself casual and vaguely interested, kept his mind empty and completely at ease. "I can't imagine you letting someone do damage like that for just anything," he mused. "You got what you wanted out of it, I presume..."

The Dark Lord tilted his head, as if amused by the question that wasn't quite a question. "You can be sure of that," he answered quietly.

Draco put on that mild smirk, expertly masking his unease. "I assume the person who gave it to you faired much worse." The words were sprinkled with an indifferent sort of interest, as if the idea was vaguely entertaining, but nothing more.

The Dark Lord's lopsided smile turned eerie in its pleasantness. "They will eventually," he assured him. "For now I fear we're at an impasse." Moments passed, each man watching the other with a half-smile on his lips. "I stopped by the Emerald Ball to see you," he continued after a long while of silence.

Draco's smile turned tight. "Yes, my father mentioned he saw you there."

"And I saw him. But not you." Voldemort's black-void eyes narrowed slowly. "What were you up to, Draco?" he asked, sly and curious and… something else, something that sounded strangely like _fatigued_.

"No good," the younger man quipped roguishly, and one corner of the Dark Lord's mouth managed to quirk up. "It's no secret I despise those stuffy formal parties. They're stiff and boring, and I don't have nearly enough patience to pretend to be polite. I keep far more… _entertaining_ options on standby for such unbearable occasions." He smirked, the mischievous Malfoy glint in his superior silver eyes. "Always have a plan of escape. That's a rule of thumb."

"And you would be a very foolish man to break it," Voldemort replied. His voice held none of Draco's lightheartedness. No, it was low and dark and deathly and somehow victorious. Somehow knowing. He swallowed, blinked—his eyelids lingering a bit before slowly opening again—then smiled, his lips stretching wide and thin. "I hope you had a fine time with your paramour, Draco," he went on with ghostly amusement. "We only get so many moments in this mortal realm. We should cherish them. We never know which one may be our last…" He swallowed again, his long fingers tightening on the chair's frame until his knobby knuckles seemed ready to tear through his sallow skin.

Draco looked cautious. "Excuse me, my lord. You… don't seem well," he dared to voice.

Voldemort laughed. "Clever boy."

Draco began to step forward. "Are you ill?" The Dark Lord only laughed again. "Perhaps you'd better sit," the younger man urged speculatively, gesturing to the cushioned seat of the chair.

"Yes, that might be advised," Voldemort said with a smile—but held up a halting hand when Draco came forward to help him. "No, no—I can manage," he assured him, carefully seating himself in the nearby window seat at the back of the room. "It's been a rather trying day. I'm merely feeling a bit worn out."

Draco's brows were furrowed. "Is there something I can do for you?" he asked, cautious. "Something I can get…?"

The Dark Lord held up his glass. "Another drink," he said, "while we wait it out."

Draco nodded once, coming forward and taking it. "It can't be much longer now," the Master mused almost absently as he turned his back. He frowned at the whispered words, but didn't dare hesitate. No, he forced his legs back across the room, back to where the brandy waited; he poured in silence until the snifter was full. And though he remained as calm and cold as ever, he couldn't shake the feeling that it was merely the calm before the storm—that something was coming, some tornado ready to turn everything upside down.

As if summoned by the thoughts he dared not let enter, a flash of green light briefly broke across the room. Draco whipped around, the drink in one hand, the other automatically going to his wand. Someone was charging out of emerald flames in the grand fireplace—a man with stern eyes the same color as the blaze.

He frowned. "Potter…"

The tall black-haired boy stopped halfway across the room, his back straight, his jaw tense, his narrowed eyes hard and pitiless. "Don't tell me you're surprised to see me."

Draco kept his dark stone eyes on Harry's, not letting them so much as glance to where the Dark Lord sat smiling in the window seat just behind. "You shouldn't have come here," he said darkly after a moment.

"You didn't leave me much choice," Harry returned. There was a pause, fraught with tension so tangible that it seemed to crackle in the air. "You know what I came for, Malfoy," he said finally, dead, expectant.

Draco's teeth clamped together, causing the muscle in his jaw to work. He was stone-cold, even though his blood began to pump faster, even though inside, his world was spinning. "Go home, Potter. This isn't the time."

"This is the only time you're going to get," Harry shot back. "And it isn't much."

Draco didn't, wouldn't—_couldn't_—react. "You shouldn't be here, Potter. Go home. Now." _Go while you still can. Go before you say too much_.

But Harry stayed with eyes narrowed and feet firmly planted. "I'm not leaving empty-handed," he vowed. He shook his head when Draco's only response was the working of his jaw. "You don't have time to waste on the runaround, Malfoy," he insisted calmly. "Law Enforcement is on its way here as we speak." His fists were clenched at his side, and his eyes were fierce, as if barely restraining the unbridled danger contained within. "So you have two options," he went on harshly. "You can hand over what I came for. You can tell me what happened, and I can try to help you fix this—As long as no one's hurt, it's not too late to sort it out." His jaw clenched. "Or you can wait for the Aurors to come crashing through those doors with their wands drawn, eager to tear this place apart, and you with it."

Draco said nothing, didn't dare say _one word_. Every moment that passed was more and more incriminating. Potter needed to _stop talking_. The imbecile wasn't saving Hermione—he was damning them all.

"It's up to you, Malfoy," Harry was warning. "But I can promise you, they're not going to be as patient. Or as kind."

"He's right, Draco," came that haunting voice from the edge of the room. Both boys stiffened instantly. "Hound dogs aren't known for their sympathetic nature—especially when sniffing out rats."

"Or snakes." Slowly, Harry turned, raising his wand for the first time, pointing it at the familiar man.

The Dark Lord only looked on fondly, his pale hands folded pleasantly in his lap. "It's been a long time, hasn't it, Harry?"

"Not long enough," the black-haired boy spat. He looked the monster up and down with disgust. "You look terrible," he observed, his eyes scanning the weary eyes, the dark bruises. "Who should I send my thank-you card to?"

The Dark Lord merely smiled. "You'll figure it out soon enough, Harry," he informed him, "though I'm not sure how _thanful_ you'll be feeling when you do." Moments passed. He took his time standing, rising from the alcove to tower imperially over the room. "I see you are already well-acquainted with Draco Malfoy." He gestured regally to the Slytherin Prince. "_My Heir_," he added smoothly.

Harry's head whipped around, his gaze widening on Malfoy, then narrowing with fury as the truth settled in. "You _son of a bitch_," he whispered. "She _truste_d you."

Draco's pale eyes were suddenly like ice. He hated Harry then, hated him for bringing Hermione into it. He might have gotten her out of here, if only the ponce had had the brains to keep his damned mouth shut.

But strangely enough, the Dark Lord didn't question who this phantom 'she' was...

"An error in judgment I'm certain won't be repeated," the skeleton man said easily.

And Draco suddenly knew that he hadn't fooled anyone.

Harry kept his gaze and his wand both pointed threateningly at Voldemort. His grip was so tight that his knuckles were white. "Where is Hermione?" he ground out dangerously. "Where is she, Malfoy?"

Voldemort's eyes crinkled with amusement. "All in good time, Harry. First, we talk." He curled his finger, beckoning Harry forward. "Put your wand down. There is much to say."

"Not until I see Hermione. Then we'll talk."

Draco felt himself tense as the Dark Lord laughed. "Very well." With a snap of his finger, Hermione appeared on the floor between them, her pale skin smudged with dirt, dungeon filth staining the dress shirt that Draco had lent her. She was still unconscious from the sedation spell, peacefully oblivious to the simmering danger all around her.

Harry immediately ran to her, keeping his wand turned on Voldemort. "Mione. Hermione!" One hand gripped her shoulder, shaking, trying to rouse her—but she did not awaken, did not even blink in response. His desperate emerald eyes scanned over the dark discoloration that disfigured one side of her face—running over her split and swollen lip to the place on her purple cheekbone where a fist had broken skin.

He looked up darkly. "What have you done?"

"Nothing that a good long _rest_ won't fix," the Dark Lord answered. He laughed under his breath as he watched the younger man's eyes widen at the words, his fingers immediately going to the mudblood's chin, searching desperately for a pulse. "She's still alive," he assured Harry amusedly. "I didn't mean a _permanent _rest. The girl has merely been sedated to keep her quiet."

Harry slowly brought his hand away. "She's cold as ice!" he accused.

"Yes, I'm afraid being chained up in a dungeon can do that to a person. As you may imagine, they tend to be very poorly insulated," Voldemort replied with mock-solemnity. "Still very functional, though, as my loyal Heir so aptly proved."

Harry's eyes shot to Draco's—eyes that longed to kill. He didn't say anything. His piercing gaze was enough.

So this was how it would play out, Draco realized numbly. A quiet sadness filled him, but his face remained like stone. Maybe he deserved this. In trying to protect her, he'd endangered her further. In trying to save her, he'd only brought her more pain.

Because even truer still, he had been selfish in all that. He had done those things for her, certainly, but even more so for himself. He'd done it to bring her closer, to keep her with him, to have her in his arms. It had been an excuse to not have to let her go.

He'd said goodbye to her before, said it more than once, but it had always been lukewarm and only half-sincere. Those endings had always only been halfway. _This_ was the end, right here, right now, quick—but not painless. Never painless.

The Dark Lord's smile was wide and drowsy. "Come now," he commanded at length. "Let us speak of things to come." He folded his hands together—an insincere sign of parley. "The war…"

"The war," Harry repeated bitterly, glaring up from where he crouched over Hermione.

Voldemort's hooded eyes seemed to spark in delight at the tension. He nodded slowly. "I want to go over the rules."

Harry's eyes narrowed with incredulity. Slowly, he dragged himself back up onto his feet. "Let's get one thing straight. You are not _my _master," he spat. "I won't be playing by your rules—not now, not ever." He shook his head hotly. "You wanted a war, and you got one. There's no crying foul—not after this," he declared, gesturing furiously to the girl at his feet. "So if that's all you wanted to talk about, we'll just be on our way."

He bent, gathering Hermione into his arms and cradling her high against his chest—daring either man to stop him. He began to stride forward, toward the fireplace, but Voldemort swept to the side, standing before it, blocking his way.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you…" the monster sang quietly.

"She needs a hospital," Harry said through his teeth. "And you have nothing of interest to say."

Voldemort laughed under his breath. "A man is entitled to his own opinion," he mused. Harry's emerald gaze sliced into his black one like the sharp blade of a dagger, causing the skeleton man to raise his pale hands in mock-defeat. He stepped humbly to the side, clearing the way for the younger man, slowly beginning to circle the room. He looked slyly over his shoulder only when he was sure Harry had his feet firmly planted in the cold cinders of the hearth, speaking only when he was sure the boy was about to disappear. "I suppose, then, that you're not _interested_ in knowing about the _curse_ that I put on your little friend…"

Draco and Harry's hearts both stopped beating in the same instant—though the black-haired man would never have guessed that the Heir felt anything remotely like concern for his victim, let alone something as all-consuming as desperation.

His head snapped up, murder bright in his green gaze. Slowly, restrainedly, he stepped back out of the fireplace. "Give me _one good reason_ why I shouldn't kill you where you stand," he snarled, holding Hermione tighter in his arms.

The Dark Lord's smile was smooth and sated, like a cat that had finally lapped up his prey. "Because if _I_ die…" he pointed eerily to the girl, "_she_ dies." His arms crossed slowly. "Is that reason good enough?"

Two sets of gazes slitted, two breaths caught in constricting chests. But it was Harry who demanded the answers to the questions suddenly burning in both their minds, Harry whose voice held all the menace and desperation. "Tell me _exactly_ what you did to her," he commanded, enunciating each word, throwing them like knives at the skeletal man.

Thick moments passed, crackling with electricity. "The curse of _Cruor Unum. _One blood," came the satisfied hiss. Both boys' brows furrowed. "You see, Harry, through a little ancient magic—and a bit of the girl's blood, provided to me by my faithful Heir—your little friend and I _share life_. If she gets a bruise, _I_ get a bruise." He smirked slowly. "And if I get killed, _she dies with me_."

Harry said nothing, only glared at the man as if his gaze had the power to do what his wand couldn't. Draco's jaw clenched harder than it ever had before, his teeth grinding so hard that the muscles of his jaw jutted out.

The Dark Lord saw both looks and smiled languidly. "Perhaps you'd like a little demonstration," he suggested. He unsheathed a dagger before either boy could react, and stabbed it without hesitation through the pale palm of his own hand. Blood pulsed from either side, but neither man was looking. Their eyes were immediately on Hermione in horror, watching as dark red began to stream to the carpet from an identical wound on either side of her delicate hand.

With another decisive move, Voldemort wrenched the blade from out of his palm—with another, he had the wound stemmed and sewn. "So we're back to the rules," he carried on casually, ignoring the menacing looks on the other men's faces, "though I'm sure by now you're getting the picture." He smiled wearily at Harry's resentful gaze. "It's simple, Harry—a pact of sorts. None of mine will touch her—and none of _yours_ will touch _me_."

Harry was shaking. "We'll find a way to lift the curse," he swore.

"You're welcome to try…"

"When we do, you're a _dead man_." Slowly, he moved his baleful gaze to Draco. "Dead _men_," he corrected through his teeth. He took a careful, determined step backward, back into the hearth, his emerald eyes locked darkly on Draco's silver ones as he whispered his destination and vanished with Hermione in a brilliant blaze of green.

Draco watched them disappear, his metallic gaze deadening to smoke and fog. So this was it, this was how it would end. This is the version of him that would be believed, remembered… the Slytherin Prince, the Death Eater, the Dark Lord's Heir. They would believe this side of the story, believe that things were exactly what they appeared to be—that he'd used Hermione, that he'd kidnapped and tortured her for Voldemort, that it was all a part of the plan—that this blasted curse was the point of the whole thing…

He swallowed.

And she was gone. Forever. Out of his arms, off his hands—bruised and broken and now literally cursed.

And someone else would get to be the one to take care of her. Because he was the enemy. He was the one to blame.

He stared into the empty hearth with cold stone eyes.

"Did you really think I didn't know?" he heard Voldemort jeer quietly in the silence. "Did you really think you could _fool me_?" The monster laughed, short and harsh, but it wasn't amused laughter any longer. "That was uncharacteristically naïve of you, Draco," he said with a sneer.

Draco's eyes cut to his, the searing resentment finally slicing through. "I had to try," he said deadly. "For her sake."

"Leaving her on those cliffs that night would have been for her sake," the Dark Lord corrected. He gestured airily to the room. "None of this would have ever happened."

"Because she'd be dead," Draco snarled.

The Dark Lord shrugged indifferently. "It would have been over quick. She wouldn't have had to suffer." He sent his Heir a lazy smile. "And I wouldn't have had anything to hold over your head..."

Draco's eyes narrowed, like fire, like ice. "You've known the truth all along."

"Of course," the gaunt man answered. "Not that you didn't make it a challenge," he added smoothly—as if that was supposed to be some kind of comfort. "I've been quite impressed with the extent of your skill at Occlumency." He shook his head at himself. "But then, I should have never expected less," he admitted. "After all, you learned it from your father—who learned it from me." He crossed his arms, his pointed chin rising, his black gaze scanning the younger man speculatively. "If you had only kept away from her, Draco, I never would have found you out."

"You were watching me." The words were dark, a realization and an accusation.

"Naturally." His lips curved at the seething silver of Draco's gaze. "I've had eyes on you since you were a child. I had to know what I was getting myself into, you understand." He watched his traitor Heir with something akin to wry affection. "I've seen everything over the years, Draco—all your wild escapades, all the drinking and whoring about. I must say, your reckless ways were thoroughly entertaining." One corner of his lips cracked up. "If not always entirely encouraging."

"And still you went through with it."

Voldemort sighed. "I'd already made the pact with your father. Getting out of it after all these years would have been a messy business indeed." He tilted his head, assessing the younger man. "I didn't want to have to take those measures. It was _you_, after all, that I saw in my visions. And there's never been any doubt about the superiority of your abilities." He folded his injured hand together with his faultless one. "Your apathy was my only hesitation," he went on breezily. "You cared about nothing, and that was a very dangerous prospect. It put you in the very powerful position of having absolutely nothing to lose."

Draco's smile was grim. "Because you couldn't control me."

"No. I couldn't," the Dark Lord agreed quietly. "It put me in quite the predicament. You see, I knew you wouldn't be enticed—"

"You didn't have anything I wanted," Draco spat.

"And you couldn't be threatened…"

"Because there wasn't anything you could take from me that I actually cared about keeping."

"Until her," the Dark Lord whispered, his black eyes bright. Draco's jaw visibly clenched. "Ah, but there's no need to feel too responsible on that account," the Master assured him. "The mudblood was doomed to this either way. I had already decided to use her as leverage against the boy. It was merely an added bonus to find I could kill two birds with one stone." He tisked when Draco's silver eyes sliced into slits, promising vengeance. "Oh, don't look at me like that, Draco," he commanded crisply. "I warned you about what love does. It makes a strong man weak—that is why they call it _falling_. And it is easy to conquer a man who is already on his knees."

Draco shook his head with cold incredulity. "And you'd leave your legacy to a man who needed to be conquered?"

The Dark Lord's exhale was heavy and thoughtful. "There were other candidates," he informed his Heir seriously after a moment, "a few of them every bit as worthy you. They certainly would not have needed coercing. They would not have dreamed of betraying their Mark." He shook his head, his black gaze cold and critical. "There are men who would kill to fill your shoes."

"I would die to let them."

The Dark Lord smiled dryly at the dead tone, the dark eyes. "Dramatics, Draco?" he asked amusedly. "From you?"

"Honesty," the silver-eyed man corrected with bite.

Voldemort rounded the sofette, carefully seating himself back against the cushions. "Yes. You've never lied to me, have you? I appreciate that. Even if you did leave a few things out." Weariness faded the amusement in his voice, but the victorious gleam still glistened behind black eyes. "Now you know that two can play that game," he said quietly. "Perhaps one a little better than the other."

Draco's blood was cold. There was only ice left in his veins. "So where does this leave me?" he asked after a while, a captured rebel standing proud before his king. "What is my sentence? Death?"

"Life," Voldemort corrected with relish. "In my service." The dangerous look that crossed the blond man's gaze had his thin, decayed smile slowly widening. "You just said yourself you'd die to let someone to take your place. Killing you would only be letting you off easy," he reasoned. "No, a lifetime spent reflecting on the error of your ways is a far more fitting punishment. You can make your amends by spending the rest of your life serving the Mark you so casually betrayed." He folded his long fingers together on his lap. "You _are_ my Heir, Draco," he informed the younger man resignedly. "Even if I could change that fact, I wouldn't. You're an asset. I cannot let a man of your caliber go to waste."

Draco's lip curled, half unbelieving, half repulsed. "I will never be an asset to you," he promised coldly. "I could never be loyal."

"Nonsense," Voldemort dismissed easily. "Loyalty is easily bought and sold. Trust is easily paid for with blood. You see, no one has more incentive to be loyal than you now that your mudblood's life is completely in my hands."

Draco smiled now, but it was cold, humorless. "You can't hurt her," he reminded the monster. "If she gets a bruise, you get a bruise. You said it yourself—if she dies, you die."

"For now," Voldemort agreed. "Because she's the thickest armor I have for battle. But once the battle's won and Harry Potter is dead, I don't see any reason why I would still need the curse. Why I would still needthe _girl_," he elaborated meaningfully. "No reason, of course, except perhaps for you." He sent a smile the younger man's way, pleasantness covering up utter indifference. "You remember what I said about pawns, don't you, Draco? They use up quickly—and once they've served their purpose, I always make sure that they are properly disposed of." Suddenly, his smile was gone, in its place a sinister glare. "Don't think for _one_ _second_ that she'd be an exception," he hissed harshly. "I've always intended to kill her once the _Cruor Unum_ was lifted." He paused for a moment, pretending to think. "I could, however, be convinced to leave it—" he offered, "if I thought it would help to keep you motivated."

Draco felt his whole body tense. "Motivated," he repeated bitterly. "To do what, exactly?"

The Dark Lord smiled. "To behave," he answered simply. His smile twitched at the way Draco's jaw worked, the way his hands balled into fists that were eager to strike. "The mudblood would be protected," he reasoned, his voice playing at generous. "I would make sure no harm came to her—I'd have to, for both of our sakes." He tilted his head, peered into seething silver eyes. "All I want in exchange is your obedience."

"And if I can't give it to you?"

"I'll end the curse and put your precious pet to sleep." The playfulness was gone, impatience in its place. The words weren't even a threat—they were a cold, cutting fact. "It's simple, Draco," the Dark Lord explained. "I have the power to keep her safe and I have the power to make her suffer. You decide here and now which one it will be." A moment passed, one that seemed to affect the gaunt ghost-man. He closed his eyes briefly, bent his head. "We're running out of time, boy," he declared sternly. He dragged his eyes back open. "What's it to be?"

Draco stared sightlessly into the empty hearth, his breath coming out heavily, his mind lost, his thoughts wild. He didn't want to do this, didn't want to _be _this, didn't want to say yes. But _she_ was flashing before his eyes, she with her scars and her faded smiles—she with her soft brown eyes, the ones that had melted his heart…

He saw her, the way she'd looked on the Hogwarts Express, her hair soaked, her clothes drenched, her dark eyes meeting his in silence. He saw her on the balcony, saw her perfect profile, her tired gaze, saw her as she stared longingly out at the dark horizon.

He saw her in the moonlight, laid out like a sacrifice on the cliffs, her skin bruised, her limbs bent, her hair tangled and soaked with red. He saw her in the infirmary, lips pale, lids closed as if in death—saw her chest move up and down just barely with faded breath…

He saw her in a white dress with angel wings at her back, saw her standing at the center of the room, waiting uncertainly for him to find her. He saw her beneath white sheets, so wary and still so trusting, saw her laying back on his pillows with nothing but his necklace on her skin.

He saw her beneath him, felt her scars brushing his Mark. He saw her drifting down the corridor wearing only his dress shirt over her panties, saw her searching for emotion that wasn't there in painted silver eyes. He saw her chained to the ground, to the filth and the ice of a dungeon; saw her disappear forever in Potter's arms, in a burst of bright green flames…

And he saw her in soft sunlight, standing at the doors of a cathedral in a white silk gown, saw gardenias fastened to her long lace veil and Casablanca lilies held carefully in her grasp. He saw her sitting silent and serene amongst her friends—saw her left hand resting on her rounded midriff, saw diamonds sparkle from her ring finger…

Saw her smile.

_Beautiful…_

And he knew that he wasn't done. He couldn't be done. The story couldn't end here, couldn't end in a blaze of green. There's always more, isn't there—there _had _to be more. He would do whatever he had to—become whatever he had to. There had to be more for Hermione. She had to live.

_Why is it we don't have a choice…_

"Well Draco?" the voice demanded, impatient, expectant. "Do I have your loyalty?"

Draco brought his iron gaze back to the waiting black. He had never hated anyone so much in his life.

Eyes falling closed, he nodded defeatedly. And suddenly, he hated himself just as much.

Voldemort brought his hands together, the sound like a crack of thunder in the silence. "Excellent. Now you'd better run along and wake your parents," he recommended smoothly, rising. "This house will be swarming with Aurors soon, and it is probably advised that we all be elsewhere when it is." He smiled at the dull way the younger man watched him. "Until next time, Draco…" he taunted—and then disappeared in thick wisps of shadow, leaving the fallen man all alone.

* * *

Hermione felt herself slowly coming out of darkness. She could hear voices in the back of her mind, or somewhere far away, muttering quietly as if trying not to wake her. Her groggy eyes parted—closed—then parted further. Her vision was blurred, and she lazily blinked to clear it. She could blearily make out Ron's familiar face in the daylight, brows furrowed, eyes narrowed on an old quidditch magazine. Sleep still clinging, she considered him with a dreamy smile. He should be doing his homework, she thought vaguely. Why did he always leave it to the last minute?

"I wasn't at all sure you actually knew how to read," she whispered fondly, her voice hoarse as it floated from her throat.

Ron looked up, startled. He immediately tossed the magazine aside and came to sit on the side of her bed, taking one of her limp hands in both of his.

"Don't let him fool you. He just looks at the pictures." Lethargically, Hermione shifted her head to the familiar voice. It was Ginny, looking down at her from the other side of the bed, her eyes seeming watery and relieved.

Hermione swallowed, her brows furrowing perplexedly, trying to see past the clouds, trying to understand. Tears? Slowly, she brought her eyes back to Ron's. They were misted with emotion, too, and messages she felt far too tired to try to read.

Uncertain, she let her gaze travel slowly, trying to place her surroundings. She could hear women's hushed voices, Pomfrey's and two others, could hear them talking somberly on the other side of the white partitions that closed her in on every side. She was in the school infirmary, she realized dazedly, wearing a thin hospital gown, tucked safely in a cot bed with crisp white sheets.

Ginny and Ron were with her, but someone else was watching over them too, a tall, burly man standing stiffly against one white screen. His hands were clasped in front of him in that classic guard stance—and she wondered absently why on earth the school hospital wing would need to hire security.

The man met her eyes with his dark ones, the hint of a reassuring smile curving his lips. She frowned, struggling, trying to make sense of it.

And then suddenly the wheels in her mind began to click back into gear, bringing her memory tumbling back into her body. The events of the night seeped slowly back in—her father, and Draco, and those hours out of time… the bedroom, the gallery… and then nothing at all…

Something had gone wrong, she realized slowly. This man was Ministry protection. He had been sent there—for her.

"How are you feeling…?" she heard Ron's voice question quietly.

She swallowed. "Confused," she said, slowly bringing her eyes back up to his. "What's going on? How… did I get here?"

Ron squeezed her hand, trying to soothe away both of their insecurities. "Harry rescued you," he whispered. "Everything's alright now. You're safe."

Hermione looked cautiously at Ginny, then back again. "Rescued me?" she repeated quietly. "What… do you mean? What happened?"

Ron frowned. "You don't remember?"

Hermione's wary gaze went to the Hit Wizard. She didn't reply.

"You're still tired," Ginny comforted her warmly after a moment. "You should rest. We don't have to talk about it now."

"Like hell—!" Ron began to interject.

"Ron…" his sister warned with quiet threat.

But thoughts in Hermione's mind were snowballing like an avalanche. She had to know what had happened. She had to know where Draco was. "It's alright, Ginny," she assured her friend with a feeble smile. Hesitantly, she brought her eyes back to Ron's. "I want to know…"

Ginny sent him a narrowed look, warning him to keep his mouth shut, that it was a good thing she didn't remember. But Ron was too wound up. He _needed_ her to remember. He needed answers!

Taking one hand from around hers, he tenderly tucked one untidy tendril behind her ear. "You were kidnapped from your house, Mione," he informed her gently. "By Malfoy," he added, ignoring another disapproving look from his sister. His jaw clenched at the way Hermione's gaze fell at the name, her lashes guarding whatever emotion was there. "He beat your father pretty bad—left him in pretty bad shape. The _Cruciatus_," he told her reluctantly when she glanced back up.

"But the Ministry sent some people to look after him," Ginny quickly put in to reassure her. "You don't need to worry. He's going to be okay."

Hermione tried to smile back, but couldn't quite manage it. Kidnapped? God, they'd gotten it so wrong.

Ron hated the way her brows furrowed together, hated the way chapped lips turned down slightly with dismay. He hated the angry bruises that fanned out across her face, stretching from one corner of her frown, across her cheek, under her eye, over her temple to her hair. He was overwhelmed, overcome with emotion, with guilt. He could feel blame in his stomach, could feel it grinding his teeth. "I am so sorry, Mione," he let out sadly. "Damn it, we should have made you come home with us! We should have protected you." His big hands squeezed her small ones almost painfully. His eyes ran regretfully over the reddish blue and purple that he assumed Draco Malfoy had smashed into her face. "When I think of what that bastard did to you—how he hurt you…"

"Hush, Ron," Ginny chastised quietly. "We couldn't have known."

"We should have been ready anyway," Ron declared bitterly. He shook his head fiercely. "I could kill him for this. I could beat that slimy smirk off of his face until his pasty skin was nothing but black and blue!"

Hermione looked down. "It's not that bad."

Ron's eyes slitted. "Not that bad?" he demanded. "When they carried you in here, you were drenched in filth because that _son of a bitch_ chained you up in a _dungeon_! You've been unconscious for hours because he drugged you with a spell!"

Hermione was quiet. "He… put me in the dungeon?" she asked hesitantly. She swallowed heavily when Ron nodded with disgust. "Then he did the kind thing, sedating me," she whispered, looking down.

"Kind thing!" Ron bellowed in disbelief, ripping his hands away from hers. "That bastard better make sure I never see him again or I'll damn well return that same _kindness_ to him!" He was fuming, accusing—incredulous that she could be so serene and accepting. "Don't you dare say one word to try to play this down, Mione. For God's sake, he thrashed you so hard that I can barely tell it's you!" He stopped, looking at her with haunted eyes. "And Pomfrey told us about the other bruises, Hermione…"

"Ron…" Ginny tried to warn off, but he ignored her.

"Tell me he didn't…" He had to pause to get his cracking voice under control. "Tell me he didn't… hurt you… in that way."

Hermione didn't meet his gaze. "What way?" she asked, but she already knew.

Ron struggled with the words. "Tell me he didn't…" He couldn't get _that word_ out… "Tell me he didn't… _force_ you," he finally managed to say.

Hermione was looking up then, certain, serious. "He didn't, Ron," she told him softly. "He wouldn't…"

Ginny closed her eyes briefly at the words, and Ron breathed an audible sigh of relief. "Thank God," he exclaimed hoarsely, his shoulders slumping. "When Pomfrey told me about…" he looked away as he gestured to his own chest, "I was so afraid. I couldn't bear it if someone hurt you that way," he told her. "I could never live with myself."

Hermione's eyes were downcast, dark with hidden secrets, dark with guilt. "He's capable of a lot of things," she said quietly, "but not that. Never that."

Ron was nodding. "That's something, at least," he acknowledged wearily, rubbing a hand over his face. "I didn't think I could take any more. I've been out of mind ever since we found out about the curse—"

"Ron!" Ginny cut in, eyes wide. Ron clamped his mouth shut, but it was too late. The word was out.

Hermione's eyes came up, her brows furrowing slightly. "Curse?" she asked guardedly. "What curse?"

Ginny sent an accusing glance at her brother. "Madam Pomfrey said no overexcitement," she deflected, putting on a smile, tucking the white blankets more safely around her friend. "Let's not get into all that nonsense now."

Hermione could feel her heartbeat suddenly become unsteady. "What nonsense?" she questioned quietly. The siblings shared a meaningful glance. "Ron. What nonsense?" she insisted.

Ginny's cobalt eyes narrowed, warning him—and this time Ron was wise enough to be reluctant. But after long, tense moments, he looked ruefully away from his sister's admonitory stare and back down into the bruised face of his friend. "It's You-Know-Who," he told her finally. "He was there. Malfoy's been working for him all along." He paused, waiting for her reaction—but none came. Her face remained patient and unreadable. "That's why he hurt you and your father," he went on slowly, wondering if maybe she wasn't getting it. "That's why he kidnapped you—to bring you to _him_."

Hermione was completely still. "Start from the beginning," she finally said.

Ginny shook her head subtly to Ron, but he knew he'd already started, and now he had to finish. "After we found your father and he told us that bastard took you, I went to get the Aurors and Harry went to get you. But Malfoy wasn't the only one there waiting for him…" He relayed the events of that fateful Christmas morning, speaking so sternly and so certainly that one would think he'd been at Malfoy Manor himself. He described the confrontation, not leaving out one word, one glance, one laugh—described Lord Voldemort and his beloved _Heir_ and the mysterious curse they'd cast together.

Hermione listened patiently and was disconcertingly calm once he had finished, staring pensively down at the bandaged palm of her wounded hand. "The _Cruor Unum_," she repeated thoughtfully. "I don't know anything about it." She watched the dressing as if trying to see through it to the sewn spot beneath—analyzed it as if it would explain everything, but it didn't. She closed her hand into a fist—looked back up on a sigh. "I've never even heard of it."

"No one has," Ron bit off, frustration in his eyes. "It's some kind of old magic. Harry's been with Dumbledore all morning trying to figure it out."

Ginny had a comforting hand on Hermione's shoulder. "You'll be fine, Mione. We'll find a way to fix this," she promised, braving a smile. "The Ministry's most respected Healer was already here to run tests and their best researchers are tearing the archives apart looking for a cure. They won't stop searching until they've found a way to lift the curse."

Hermione nodded, almost imperceptibly. Her gaze traveled cautiously to the silent Hit Wizard, then slowly returned to Ron's ocean blue one. There was still one thing he hadn't told her—the only thing she truly cared about, the only thing she was burning, _burning_ to know. She swallowed slowly. "What about Malfoy?" she asked him quietly. She looked down at her hands, afraid of giving too much away—glanced back up through her tangled lashes. "Where is he? Do they… have him?"

There was a long, reluctant pause, one that seemed to stretch out for a lifetime. She was sure they were going to say that they'd locked him away, waited for them to say that they'd thrown away the key.

"No," Ron finally answered, sighing. "We don't know where he is. The manor was empty by the time the Aurors got there." He watched Hermione's lashes lower—interpreted it as distress. "We _will_ find him though, Hermione. I promise you that," he vowed passionately. "He'll die in Azkaban for what he's done to you."

Hermione swallowed. The words were a promise—one that she was absolutely terrified he would keep.

"Excuse me." A new voice saved her from having to respond. All eyes turned to find a well-dressed woman with dark skin, dark hair, and a polite smile on her lips. "Hello, Hermione," she greeted, coming to stand at the foot of the bed. "My name is Sarala Shahani. I'm with the Auror's Office. I was hoping I could ask you a few questions about last night."

Hermione met her open gaze with a far more guarded one. "I'm tired," she said warily. "I don't want to talk right now."

The Auror tilted her head, the smile turning speculative. "I understand it's difficult. But we could really use your help piecing together what happened. It might help us catch the people who did this to you."

Hermione stared at her hands for a long time. "I don't have anything to say."

"Hermione—" Ron urged with a frown, but Madam Pomfrey cut in.

"She's been through enough, Ms. Shahani. She needs to rest. I'm afraid your interview will have to wait." The nurse swept forward, a cup of hot lavender tea in her grasp. "Here, Hermione. Drink this," she commanded gently. "It will make you feel better."

Words were exchanged, but Hermione didn't hear them. After a few sips of tea, she was fast asleep.

* * *

"What do you _mean_ there is no counter-curse?" Harry paced back and forth, his bright emerald eyes disbelieving as they met the professors'—incredulous, incensed, impatient as all hell. "You can't be serious!"

"Please do try to keep calm, Mr. Potter," McGonagall urged worriedly from her seat. "Hysterics will only make this more difficult."

Harry held back a biting retort, clamping his teeth together so tightly he was surprised they didn't crack. It took some effort, but he forced himself to obey her, stilling stiffly, crossing his arms, hiding his clenched fists. She was right, of course. Panicking wouldn't help Hermione. But goddamn it if he was going to sit here and listen to this helpless jabber!

"Now I didn't say there is no counter-curse," McGonagall clarified quietly once he had calmed. "Naturally it's safe to assume that there is." She sighed, looking between her colleagues. "We merely aren't aware of what it might be. We haven't been able to find any definite record of the spell."

Harry threw up his hands at that. Calmness was damned—he was instantly pacing again. "But there _has_ to be something _somewhere_!" he insisted impatiently. "Voldemort didn't just _invent_ the bloody thing!"

"How do you know?" Snape asked mildly from his place in the corner.

"He _told_ me," Harry snapped back, turning his slitted gaze on the older man. "Unless 'ancient magic' means something different to you, professor…" he added through gritted teeth.

One corner of Snape's mouth tilted up at that. "Ever heard the term needle in a haystack, Potter?" he asked his pupil blandly. "Well, in this case it's a thousand haystacks. A thousand years worth of text to sift through—not to mention that there's every possibility that records of the curse no longer exist, that they haven't for centuries."

"Impossible," Harry spat, resenting the words, resenting the bored, even tone that they were stated in.

Snape's eyes narrowed. "If you'd paid attention in your history lessons you'd know that it's more than possible—it's probable," he answered in a clipped, superior tone. "The vast majority of medieval documents have either been lost or destroyed. What we have from that time is a mere fraction of its wealth."

"How would he know how to cast it then?" Harry demanded back, not willing to face the utter hopelessness of that possibility. "How would he even know there was such a spell?" His gaze searched out Dumbledore's for answers, for reassurance, but the old man was facing one of the long, wide windows, his hands clasped behind his back, his grave, thoughtful gaze steady on the white horizon.

"It must have been passed down some way or another—through what medium, we may never know." McGonagall's wrinkled hands fiddled with the rim of the pointed hat that sat rigid in her lap. The movement was subtle, but still significant. Harry couldn't remember ever seeing her display a sign of anything but the sternest composure before today. "It could very well be that he is the only person alive who understands it. And there is a chance that even he doesn't know enough about the curse to break it."

"Unlikely," Snape scoffed. "The Dark Lord would never curse himself unless he knew how to undo it." His dark eyes were dull and mocking. "He's far too wise—and far too vain."

Harry stopped short. "So we're back to the beginning," he observed tightly. The heavy silence that he was met with had the frustration brimming over. "Damn it," he swore, pacing madly again, "I'll kill Malfoy for this. I'll beat him into the bloody ground." His fists clenched so tightly that he swore his skin would rip over his knuckles, but he couldn't force them to relax. They longed to smash the ferret right in his always-smirking mouth, longed to thrash that superior look off his face until there was nothing but bruises left. "When I find him he'll pay for every last increment of pain he's caused," he promised deadly. He stopped again, sighed, brought the back of one fist up to rub his lightning bolt scar. "The Aurors still haven't found any leads?"

"He'll turn up eventually," Snape said bleakly. "That shouldn't be your concern now."

"That's my only concern now," Harry snapped.

Snape's eyes narrowed into slits at the tone, his own frustration momentarily erupting from behind the deadly calm mask. "Then get your priorities in check," he barked superiorly. "Exacting your little revenge won't help us find the Dark Lord. It _certainly_ won't help you to save your friend." His arms were crossed tightly, as if it was the only thing restraining him. He stayed planted in his corner, but his spine seemed tense with the instinct to lunge. "Finding Malfoy is utterly pointless," he sneered. "He won't know how to lift the curse. _That _is what we need, Potter—the counter-curse. We can't help Granger or, more importantly, get to the Dark Lord without it."

"_More importantly?_" Harry repeated incredulously. He shook his head. "Priorities indeed," he spat, half in disbelief, half in disgust.

Snape said nothing. He wouldn't make apologies for his frankness, his _priorities_. The Dark Lord _had _to _pay_—for taking his _childhood_ from him, for taking Lily. His own desperation was burning, _burning_ inside of him—eighteen years of waiting, of biding his time. Now the Dark Lord was right within reach—he could feel him, could sense him lingering. Severus had never felt so close, or so far away. Damn this blasted curse! It was the only thing standing between him and his own vengeance.

"This is a highly stressful situation for everyone," McGonagall reminded them sternly. "Squabbling over intentions won't help us be any more productive. Let's not forget we all want the same thing…"

Harry glared at Snape. Yes, they wanted the same thing—Voldemort's head on a silver platter. But it appeared that the former Death Eater wanted it just a little bit more—for it seemed he was willing to get it whatever the cost. The professor had some gall sniffing at his "little vengeance" when it was obvious that _vengeance_ was all he wanted himself.

"It hardly seems to matter now anyway," McGonagall went on, sighing. "We're as close to finding Draco Malfoy as we are to finding information about this mysterious curse."

All of a sudden, as if on cue, the dying embers in the fireplace transformed into an emerald storm of flames, the bright green light that reflected against the windows finally bringing Dumbledore's face around. A stranger materialized in the blaze, a short man of perhaps sixty or sixty-five with pepper-gray hair and wide, square spectacles. Carefully, the man stepped out of the hearth, his hands folded together, an accordion file folder stuffed under one arm.

"Jethro. Impeccable timing," Dumbledore greeted gravely, coming forward to shake the other man's hand. He stepped back again to face his colleagues with the newcomer. "Severus, Minerva, Harry—may I introduce Jethro Plume from the Department of Magical Experimentation and Modification."

Harry's brows furrowed at the mention of the department—Development, as it was commonly called. It was a sector of the Ministry that was generally revered, for only the rarest, most ingenious minds were reputed to work there. Like both the official and informal names suggested, its function was in the development of magic—to take it apart and then to put it back together, to improve spells, and even to invent them. It was in this peculiar department that the infamous Committee on Experimental Charms had long resided—though explanations of what exactly went on there were highly unreliable and mostly fodder for the tabloids, which always seemed to have a new sensationalized "report" about some experimental mishap or shocking discovery Development had made.

These articles, outlandish as they always obviously were, had put a picture in Harry's brain of eccentric mad-scientists huddled around strange experiments and intricate inventions—Frankenstein monsters, boiling potions bubbling over their cauldrons, strings of electricity zipping and zapping across cobwebbed laboratory walls. The man before him, however, was a much more sedate version of his imaginings, looking more like an introverted librarian than one of the manic inventors he had always envisioned.

"Yes, of course—we're already acquainted. How are you, Jethro?" McGonagall asked.

"Hard at work," the man named Jethro answered, his voice quiet and naturally grave. "As, I'm sure, are all of you."

McGonagall nodded, trying her best attempt at a smile, but the tilt of lips wavered, making the effort only half a success. "I recently read your essay in the Scholar's Quarterly," she commented politely, "and may I say it was simply stunning." The words, which usually would have been full of the firmest sincerity, were tainted by all the tension and awkwardness of this stressful turn.

The man let a gracious smile tinge his features, which were not quite wrinkled, but soft with age. "Thank you, Minerva," he replied kindly. And then the wisp of a smile sobered. "If only the archives had been as revealing with this matter."

Dumbledore's shoulders slumped ever so slightly at the rueful response. It was the first sign of disheartening that he'd dared to display. "So you haven't found anything then," he half-asked, half-stated.

Jethro Plume stepped forward. "We have," informed them carefully, taking the brown file folder from under his arm. "It isn't much," he quickly warned them. "A possible reference in an Anglo-Saxon manuscript by Cuthbert of Hexham."

"Who?" Harry asked, his nose skeptically scrunching up.

"A student here at Hogwarts School back in the late 10th century," Jethro told him, "part of the first graduating class. We know he was the son of a wealthy noble, and was hand-picked by Salazar Slytherin for the Slytherin House. He chronicled his education here in some detail—and what remains of that undertaking are some of the few surviving first-hand accounts of the Founders."

"And the reference…?" Snape asked impatiently from his place off to the side, uninterested in anything but the bottom line.

Mr. Plume quickly stretched open the accordion folder and began to rummage through its many compartments. "Here," he said, drawing out papers. "I brought copies of the relevant passage and the corresponding translation so you could see for yourselves."

The others came forward and took the sheets of parchment they were handed, Snape and Harry snatching their copies perhaps a bit more roughly than they should have.

Harry only afforded the first page a glance; on it was a picture copy of the original document, its once pristine white surface now aged to a burnt gold and its careful medieval lettering sort of faded away. The calligraphy was beautiful but utterly useless, being written completely in Old English—so he shuffled to the next page with Plume's translation without wasting another thought.

The language was graspable, if only barely, though Jethro's rushed scribble was somewhat difficult to make out. Harry's eyes must have been as desperate for answers as the rest of him, for they seemed to decipher the words quickly without any effort at all. He read out loud, his voice running so fast that it was hard for his breath to keep up.

"_During the lesson Master Slytherin spake of a curse that could bind two men in mortality, that they should live and die as one so as to prevent either man from plotting against the other. When we questioned Master Gryffindor further on the subject he reluctantly confirmed the existence of such a spell, but said that they would never learn it to any pupil, for it was a very dangerous business and altogether without benefit. To procure peace through force is to procure no peace at all, said he. No magic can mend what mortal hands do break. He looked quite darkly at Master Slytherin then, and said that the curse should be carefully guarded…_" Harry slowed down— paused… "_for there are men who would surely use it, not to prevent wars..._" He looked up, swallowed…"_but to win them_."

His jaw clenched, those last haunting words stinging, and his fist had to fight its every instinct to do the same.

"How eerily astute," he heard Dumbledore observe solemnly—and suddenly he couldn't stand it, couldn't restrain it anymore. He crumpled the paper bitterly in his grasp, this paper that was virtually worthless with its haunting warning that had come centuries before and still somehow had come too late.

"This is all you have?" he questioned incredulously. "It's not enough. It's next to nothing!"

"I know," Jethro told him gravely. "But it's all we've been able to find. And speaking frankly, it's all we _expect_ to find." Harry released a sound of frustration. "You have to understand, the written form in the 10th century wasn't what it is today," the older man tried to explain. "There were no textbooks or master encyclopedias of spells. The majority of the magical population learned the arts within their families. Potions and charms were passed down in the home by memory—much like when a mother teaches her daughter the family recipe for… rhubarb pie, let's say." He saw Harry's eyes dull impatiently, but continued in the same solemn, even tone. "She spends time each week letting the girl watch her make the pies, help her make the pies—spends time going over the ingredients, going over just how long the pie should bake—until finally the girl is proficient at doing it on her own. Then, when the girl is grown, she does the same with her daughter, and the tradition continues for generations that way."

"Mothers taught _curses_ to their daughters?" Harry asked acidly, the question born more of bitterness than actual interest.

"Some," Mr. Plume answered matter-of-factly. "Hexes, more like. Certainly not a curse of this nature. The average person in that time knew only practical magic—charms to aid in domestic tasks or land labor, potions to cure rashes, and other such day-to-day things." He adjusted his large square glasses higher on the bridge of his nose. "Complex magic was only practiced by people of higher means—feudal lords, successful tradesman and so on. Only a handful of witches and wizards had access to a formal education with the masters." He sighed. "An even smaller portion of that group was actually literate."

Harry nodded irritably. "So basically there's nothing on paper," he summed up.

"It's highly unlikely," Jethro confirmed calmly. "What's clear from this is that the curse was not commonly known even in it's own time. A spell as sophisticated as this, I'd imagine only the masters knew of its existence, and there's every possibility that even they never used it." He shook his head. "If it ever _was _written down it probably would have been in a private grimoire, but as I said, they were only kept by people with means and knowledge enough to fill one."

"So let's go through all the grimoires…" Harry said desperately, as if somehow it could be that simple.

But the rueful look on Jethro's face reminded him that, of course, it wasn't. "We've been over what we have access to multiple times," he told the young man carefully. "Unfortunately it didn't take very long. Next to no medieval grimoires have actually survived." He saw Harry's eyes roll to the ceiling, but went on. "Most of the ones that have are still owned by the descendents," he said quietly, "and as you can imagine, the historical families who've managed to preserve such ancestral items are extremely protective of them. In my many years with Ministry, only two privately-owned grimoires dating from this period have been made available for us to examine."

Harry's gaze sharpened at two words in particular. "Historical families," he repeated, the tone of his voice deadly and deceptively calm. "You mean like the Malfoys."

It was Jethro's turn to frown. "Sure…" he said cautiously after a moment. "Malfoy lineage traces back to the Middle Ages." His gaze flickered around the room, shaded by furrowed brows. "Why?" he asked carefully then. "Is there some reason to think that they're involved?"

Only a moment passed before Dumbledore forced a polite smile. "I'm sure you'd like to get back to the library," he said pleasantly. Stepping forward, he reached out a wrinkled hand to shake with Plume's. "We appreciate your urgency—and your _discretion_—where this matter is concerned." The other man took the outstretched hand cautiously, and the headmaster held on, his gaze turning meaningful.

Watching the exchange, it suddenly struck Harry that not even this Jethro Plume knew the entirety of what was happening, that he knew only what he needed to know, only what he was supposed to know, _allowed_ to know, and nothing more. It added weight to the already-crippling burden, the knowledge that whatever was happening was so severe, so volatile, that even the most respected of Ministry officials were being kept in ignorance.

Jethro nodded, understanding in his frown. "Of course." He stored the file folder back under his arm and pulled a small leather coin sack from within his robe, which appeared to hold something the texture of sand. With one last hesitant look around the room, he began to step back towards the hearth.

"Wait." Harry's disbelieving voice cut through the silence, stopping him just as he was about to sprinkle powder into the timid flames. He turned back. "So that's it?" the boy asked him, asked them all incredulously. "We're just giving up? What about Hermione?"

"Or the Dark Lord for that matter," Snape muttered sourly, causing McGonagall to slice a disapproving glance his way.

Mr. Plume stepped slowly toward Harry. "No one is giving up," he assured him quietly. "I'll come back the moment we find out anything more." He met Harry's eyes, his glance becoming meaningful. "We'll keep doing what we can—everything humanly possible."

"But sometimes, Harry, it takes more than that, you know." It was Dumbledore who spoke now, his voice solemn and somehow faraway. Harry turned his eyes to the old professor, but again the man's gaze was staring off out of the window, watching some distant place through the frost-covered glass. "Sometimes we can only do so much and go so far," he said. "The rest comes down to a single twist of Fate."

Harry's jaw set and his eyes turned dark. "I won't let it come down to that, sir," he stated calmly, and the words came out sounding like a vow, a threat. "I can't."

His voice cracked just a bit on that final word, though, and the subtle sound brought Dumbledore's eyes back around to his. The broken look hidden behind the determined dark emerald had the headmaster's gaze softening, had it becoming compassionate and reassuring once more. "Let us worry about it for now," he told Harry gently after a moment. "You go to Miss Granger. I'm sure after everything that's happened she'll want to see you." But Harry, with his stormy, breaking eyes, didn't move. Moments passed. "We appreciate you coming here, Jethro," the headmaster said, not taking his eyes from Harry's. "Please, keep us posted with any new discoveries." He waited until the man had disappeared in a flash of green before smiling encouragingly. "Go, Harry," he urged. "We'll talk again in a little while."

Harry stayed still for another moment before his shoulders slumped. "Fine," he said, his voice quiet and tired. "I'll be in the hospital wing." And with one last shake of his head, he slowly turned and crossed the room.

The professors watched him go with intent eyes and matching frowns, watched the door even after he had shut it behind him. "The poor boy is overwhelmed," McGonagall observed finally, her sympathetic gaze on the place where her student had disappeared.

"Yes, being the reason for an entire war can do that to a person," was Snape's retort. McGonagall's gaze cut to his, but his frustrated eyes were on the ceiling so he didn't notice. "The boy was right though," he admitted through his teeth. He crumpled the paper up in his hands. "This isn't enough."

"It is more than any of us expected," Dumbledore reminded him quietly. Snape only rolled his eyes and threw the useless translation aside. "They'll keep searching," the headmaster told him calmly. "In the meantime we will have to make due."

McGonagall was shaking her head. "When word of this gets out the people will be in a panic," she predicted worriedly. "A war—and with You-Know-Who untouchable…!"

"We must take every precaution to delay that for as long as possible," Dumbledore told them. "For the time being we must go on as if nothing's the matter." He looked between his two trusted colleagues, his gaze as grave and calm. "Speak of what has transpired to no one—not to the students, not even to the other faculty. We must follow Godric Gryffindor's sage advice. This curse must remain a most guarded secret."

"And how exactly are we to explain away the sudden coincidental absence of our two most conspicuous students?" Snape asked mildly.

Dumbledore removed his half-moon spectacles from his face and wearily brought a hand over his eyes. "Hermione Granger will be staying in the hospital wing until all visible injury has healed," he answered finally. "If anyone gets overly curious about her presence there, you are to say she's merely been experiencing a mild relapse related to her accident earlier in the term." Carefully he replaced the glasses on the bridge of his nose. "As for Draco Malfoy, he is on an emergency leave of absence, and we don't know when he'll be free to return us."

Snape's eyebrow arched. "It's true enough," he allowed dryly.

"In the meantime, I'm appointing Brandon Madison as acting Head Boy."

"What!" Snape barked. He clenched his jaw, holding tight to patience. "Is that really necessary?" he asked, speaking through his teeth.

"It's already done," Dumbledore sighed. "I've spoken with Filius. He's informing Mr. Madison as we speak."

Snape's upper lip curled. "Ridiculous."

McGonagall raised her chin at the Potions master's reproach. "I don't know how you can scoff. The students will need a positive role model now more than ever, Severus," she told him primly. She folded her hands tightly in her lap. "Mr. Malfoy should have never been chosen over Brandon to begin with."

Snape's eyes narrowed pointedly. "Are you saying the Headmaster made a mistake?"

Minerva glanced somewhat ruefully at Dumbledore, but didn't take the oppositional words back. "Draco Malfoy has always been exemplary in the schoolroom," she hedged carefully. "We all conceded that his marks were superior to the other male students, and that his mastery of the art was unmatched, except perhaps by my Miss Granger. But let's not pretend we weren't all aware of his… less than exemplary conduct once the school day was over." Her voice and eyes hardened unsympathetically. "I think at this point we can all admit that these appalling crimes have put the behavioral concerns we overlooked into perspective."

"So much for innocent until proven guilty," Snape spat. "And here I thought witnesses and _evidence_ were needed to convict a man." He shook his head, his smile crisp and mocking. "But then why even bother with the convention of a trial when we have Minverva McGonagall's superior judgment at our disposal."

"The injury to Hermione Granger speaks for itself," McGonagall snapped back.

Snape looked on in disgust. "Injuries don't have mouths or voices, madam," he informed her bitingly. "Not everything is always what it appears to be. The courts will decide where the guilt lies when it's over. Justice will be dealt where justice is due." His eyes were dull. "_If_ it is due."

McGonagall opened her mouth to retort, but an urgent knock had all their gazes shifting to the door.

"Enter," Dumbledore called, and the door opened slowly, revealing Poppy Pomfrey. "How is your patient?" the headmaster asked without preliminaries.

"Sleeping now," Madam Pomfrey replied, stepping forward, gently closing the door behind her. "She's been through a terrible ordeal, Albus. And I'm afraid her symptoms fit the version that Harry told us." The nurse shook her head with feeling eyes, almost as if it was hard to continue. "She stayed unconscious for so long that I'm sure she was dangerously sedated," she told them. "There are marks around her ankles with the imprint of shackles, and she was in the beginning stages of hypothermia form being left in that freezing dungeon overnight." She swallowed, hesitant. "I… even found rodent bites, Albus."

McGonagall's hand flew to her gaping mouth. "Dear God…"

Pomfrey sighed. "The poor girl refused to talk about what happened, but the bruises are enough to know she was mercilessly beaten." She shook her head sadly. "They'll heal, of course, as will the stab wound through her hand. But the emotional scars, Albus. After everything she's been through, I'm afraid she may never recover."

Dumbledore nodded solemnly. "Has anyone from Development arrived to examine her yet?" he asked quietly.

Pomfrey nodded once. "The head of the Magical Medicines herself. She's running samples now."

Dumbledore seemed relieved. "Ardice Plume—Jethro's daughter," he informed the others. He looked back to the nurse. "Did she have any preliminary insights?"

Pomfrey's gaze fell. Again, she was hesitant. "She… found belladonna in Hermione's system."

Dumbledore brought a troubled hand to his chin, and McGonagall's inward take of breath was audible. Snape, however, was the only one who spoke. "Beaten, stabbed, _and_ poisoned," he observed skeptically. "The Dark Lord certainly wants to get his point across."

"I'm not certain that's what it was," Pomfrey replied. "There wasn't enough toxicity to cause her any real harm—probably no more than a single berry's worth." She paused. "That, and we found traces of sunflower too..."

Snape frowned. "Ingredients," he concluded perplexedly.

"That was Ms. Plume's thought, as well," the nurse confirmed. "She believes the curse may have been bound by a potion—how or why or what the potion could be, we just don't know. She'll be back as soon as she has the results, but… she believes more specific findings probably won't be as forthcoming."

"Surprise, surprise," Snape muttered blandly.

Pomfrey only spared him a glance before letting her uneasy gaze settle on the headmaster. "In the meantime, I've finished administering the routine remedies. But I… I wanted to speak with you before I took any further action…"

Dumbledore seemed to understand immediately. "Please," he said to the others, "if you'll allow us to speak privately."

Snape looked as if he wanted to refuse, but McGonagall was already standing and planting her pointed hat atop her head. "Of course." The Potions master had no choice but to follow his cooperative colleague out of the room.

Dumbledore motioned Pomfrey to take the chair McGonagall had relinquished, and she quickly sat, wringing her hands nervously together. When she spoke, her voice was hushed and urgent, as if she was afraid some eavesdropping enemy might overhear. "It's the Concealment Spell, Albus—the one masking her scars. I wasn't sure what you wanted me to do."

Dumbledore's gaze was tense, urgent. "I trust you didn't lift it…?" The nurse shook her head cautiously. "Good," the old man said. "You did the right thing." He was calm, the way he always seemed to be, but in his voice was a touch of restrained tension. His exhalation was almost inaudible, but it was slow, deep, and full of relief.

"So then… I should leave it alone?" she asked uncertainly.

The headmaster's gaze held hers gravely. "Hermione is connected to Voldemort in ways we cannot yet fathom," he explained quietly. "This curse binds them together—they share every cut, every bruise, every spell. She bears the stab wound he gave to himself—the only logical conclusion is that he likewise bears _her_ scars on _his_ body, only hidden like hers beneath the Concealment Spell. There's a chance he may not be aware of their existence," he told the nurse. "As long as the spell remains in tact, he may never have to know."

Pomfrey nodded, realization dawning. She watched as the old professor turned back to face the window, his troubled eyes absently watching the horizon. ""So you see, we must not lift it, not even for a moment," he said, quieter now, almost to himself. "If we can keep anything from him at this point, it will be to our advantage." He shook his head slowly. "The less he knows about Hermione Granger, the better."

Silence fell. Moments passed, heavy, before Poppy finally let herself sigh. "I just can't make sense of it, Albus," she confessed sadly. "I saw Draco Malfoy that night, the night he saved her." She shook her head. "He told me then that they weren't friends. But still I… I knew somehow that he was afraid. That he _cared_ for her." She swallowed, shook her head. "I just can't understand how he could have done this."

Dumbledore kept his solemn gaze on that distant place beyond the snow-covered field, that faraway place on the horizon where the answers remained just out of reach. "All will be explained in time," he said softly.

For the first time, however, he didn't sound so sure.

* * *

All was quiet when Harry walked back into the infirmary, so much so that his urgent footsteps sounded more like cracks of thunder than the echoes of footfall. The beds were all empty of other students, just as they had been earlier, but even so the nurse had seen to it that white screens sectioned off Hermione's little corner of the room, hiding her from view in case someone happened to come along. Behind the partitions he could make out the barest hint of shadows—the bulky outline of the Hit Wizard who'd been stationed there since early that morning; the curled up silhouette of Ginny flipping through an old fashion magazines in her chair. Ron's tall, lanky form was the only one missing, and Harry knew he must've been volunteered to bring up lunch from the Great Hall.

Nodding silently to the sympathetic-looking assistant nurse who lingered nearby, Harry squeezed through the corner gap where two of the white partitions almost met.

Ginny was instantly putting her magazine aside. "There you are. How did everything go?"

Harry's only answer was the glance of haunted eyes. "She still asleep?" he asked, his gaze shifting to the bed.

Ginny followed his eyes, her own softening. "She was awake for a little while. The tea knocked her out again."

Harry slowly stepped forward—carefully lowered to the edge of the bed. His emerald eyes scanned her face; her thin arms, which were limp at her sides; her fragile frame, which was tucked carefully beneath the blankets. The dungeon filth had been bathed away, but the sight of her now was even more distressing—the bruises were more colorful, more pronounced now without the dirt there to cover them.

She wasn't unrecognizable. No, he knew exactly who was lying here unconscious, could see those familiar features clearly beneath swollen black and blue. And although he knew he should have been grateful that Mione's injuries weren't bad enough to obscure her identity, there was a part of him that wished he could pretend it wasn't her. But there was no such relief. This was definitely Hermione—her bruised, swollen face; her too-slender form. Swallowing, he let the pad of his index finger stroke ever-so-slightly down her arm, let it trace the back of her wounded hand, which was wrapped now in a thick bandage.

"Did she say anything about Malfoy?" he asked quietly. "About what happened…"

Ginny nodded. "The bruises are the extent of it, Harry." She looked down, hesitated. "He didn't… you know…"

Harry's jaw clenched. He didn't look away from Hermione's face. "What did Pomfrey say?"

Ginny hesitated again. "That they found deadly nightshade in her system." His wide and heated gaze whipped around to hers at that. "But it was only a little bit," she assured him quickly. "Nowhere near enough to kill her." She watched his jaw work, watched as he turned back to stare down at Hermione. She turned her gaze there, too, her eyes gentling sadly. "They're keeping her here for a little while," she went on softly, "just until they can make sure the curse doesn't have any harmful side effects."

He nodded—sighed. A long time passed. "Now do you understand why I can't be more than your friend?" he asked her warily. He shook his head, closed his eyes to the sight of bruises. "This could have been you."

Slowly, Ginny came up beside him—reached out a hand to gently tuck one wild curl behind Hermione's ear. "I wish it was," she whispered with a sigh. "She's been through too much already." The words must have struck a chord deep inside of Harry, because he was suddenly putting his head in his hands. "Hey now—" Ginny turned fully to him, taking his hands away from his face, holding them supportively in hers. "This isn't your fault." Harry let out a bitter laugh. "Harry—" She bent, forcing him to meet her gaze. "It isn't," she told him firmly.

He let his eyes linger on the certain blue ones above his before turning them back to the bruised girl in the bed. "A part of me is kicking myself for not keeping her close enough," he admitted after a while. "I saw Malfoy's interest in her. I knew there was something going on." He shrugged. "I didn't do enough to intervene. I was so afraid of doing the wrong thing that I ended up doing nothing else." He shook his head, swallowed heavily. "The other part of me is kicking myself for keeping her too close," he went on deadly. "It's because of her relationship with me that they even thought to use her." His dull, expectant gaze rose back to Ginny's. "Either way you look at it, it _is_ my fault."

"This is _You-Know-Who's_ fault, Harry," she insisted quietly, squeezing his hands in hers. "This is Malfoy's fault. They're the ones who did this."

"Yes," Harry agreed numbly. "And they did it to get to me." He was tormented by the current state of affairs, the current state of Hermione's face. Tormented by self-reproach. He shook his head, his jaw tightening. "I'm the reason Voldemort has her by the throat."

Ginny only shook her head compassionately. Words couldn't heal a wound this deep. It was too complicated to argue away, too severe to comfort. Taking her hands from his, she brought them up to run soothingly through his hair, letting her fingers calm him the way she knew her voice couldn't. "We'll find them, Harry," she reassured him softly. "And we'll find a way to break the curse."

Harry stared absently at her left collarbone. "I know," he answered, his voice calm, firm, dead. "We have to. We don't have a choice."


	18. Following Orders

_Saving You Summary—DMHG. Hermione Granger has a secret, one that's literally killing her: she has been suffering extreme abuse at the hands of her father. Who will come to her rescue? What if the only one who can is Draco Malfoy? Rated M for sexual content (including rape), suicide ideation, and violence._

_Disclaimer—Most of the characters and a lot of the setting belong to J.K. Rowling. The rest is mine._

A/N: Last updated Oct. 31, 2011

* * *

**:::Following Orders:::**

If records of the _Cruor __Unum_ still existed, they were nowhere to be found in the final week of Christmas holiday. Those select factions of the Ministry that had been alerted of the situation had each contributed their expertise to the search for answers, to no avail. The Order, too, had dug deep, trying to find something, anything that might be useful. But their quest had turned up nothing. They were no closer to understanding this elusive curse—no closer to helping Hermione.

Harry watched his silent friend from across the library table. Her injuries had visibly healed, the swelling and discoloration mended by Madam Pomfrey's aggressive treatments and endless cups of herbal tea. Only the through-and-through wound to her delicate hand remained, tightly wrapped now to prevent infection.

And to prevent _questions_. They were asked anyway, of course, as the bandage itself was rather conspicuous—but the trio had explained it all away by telling anyone who was curious that her moody pet, Crookshanks, had been to blame. It was believable enough.

Aside from that, her skin was soft and flawless again, leaving no evidence, no trace of the trouble that had befallen her. She'd been out of the hospital wing before anyone could even discover she'd been in it—and the professors, the other students, even the best-informed gossipmongers, didn't so much as suspect that something had happened, that something was wrong. They didn't suspect that the Head Girl had been hurt, that she'd been beaten, stabbed—and _cursed_. They didn't suspect that her condition was part of something bigger, something that would likely affect them all. As far as everyone knew, this was just another day. The rest of the world was none the wiser—blissfully ignorant of what was happening right under their noses, behind closed doors.

Draco Malfoy hadn't come back—"leave of absence" was the official phrase being regurgitated out by the unwitting professors. Lies had been created, vague excuses for anyone wondering why the Slytherin Prince hadn't returned from holiday like everyone else. And once Brandon Madison was named temporary Head Boy in his stead, it became evident that he wasn't expected to reemerge anytime soon.

The gossip varied wildly, the rumor mill turning out all sorts of contradictory explanations. Preston Charles had heard something about an ailing Malfoy relative who was on his deathbed in Munich and had requested that Draco, his favorite cousin, stay with him until the end. Lucius Malfoy, always concerned with multiplying profits, was reported to have sent his son to Germany to secure the flush inheritance that was sure to follow once this alleged cousin finally did them the favor of dying off. Leslie Morris, on the other hand, supposedly had it on good authority that a Christmas trip to Paris had become a lavish tour of the Continent that was expected to last at least half a year. Even Seamus was concocting his own madcap theories, the most "plausible" of which involved the ferret needing time to recover from a particularly decadent bender, one which the Irish boy was sure involved gambling debts to the Sicilian mafia and some sort of disfiguring venereal disease.

No one, however, seemed to suspect the truth—that he was on the lam, that the Aurors were after him. He was wanted for questioning. _Questioning_—that was how the government had worded it, _disguised_ it. Officially, however, he was wanted for far more than that—two felony counts of assault and battery, one felony count of kidnapping, one felony count of cruel and unusual use of magic, and a felony hate crimes count for violence against a muggle.

But no one knew that, not even most of Law Enforcement. Like everything else, Draco Malfoy's arrest warrant was classified information.

Hermione's eyes stayed turned down on the book _Ancient__Incantations_ that sat open before her, and Harry watched warmly as they slowly, almost imperceptibly, scanned from one side of the wrinkled page to the other. Hushed laughter sounded sporadically from behind her, and involuntarily his gaze shifted focus, narrowing on a group of Slytherin girls who sat chattering in the background. Pansy was at the center, as she always seemed to be, flipping absently through a textbook as if it were the pages of a magazine. Harry's jaw clenched as he watched them—Malfoy's sweetheart, in particular—his hands automatically tightening into fists in his lap. There wasn't a doubt in his mind that _someone_ knew more than they were letting on. It drove him mad, knowing that he was here hunting desperately and in vain. His people were groping in the dark while the answers they sought lingered somewhere just below the surface—perhaps as nearby as the Slytherin dormitories underneath the school.

Pansy must've felt his suspicious gaze, because her own eyes flashed up, connecting with his. She tilted her head and put on a smirk, the slant of lips slight, but oh-so-superior.

Harry couldn't stop his lip from curling in disgust. He only let himself glare at her a moment longer before shifting focus back to Hermione.

She flipped the pages of her book slowly, ever so carefully, as if they were delicate sheets of glass instead of paper. Unlike his ravenous gaze, hers read the words at snail-pace. If she felt determined or desperate, it didn't show. She appeared to only be searching out of obligation, only because she knew she was supposed to, how it would look if she didn't.

Only because she didn't feel like having to explain why she didn't care.

Was she angry… sad…? Afraid? She didn't say, so they couldn't be certain. But the look on her face, in her eyes—that familiar faraway gaze that stared off at nothing—had her three closest friends extremely concerned.

Hermione felt familiar emerald eyes watching her worriedly from across the table. She glanced up to meet Harry's examining gaze, but could barely muster up the reassuring smile she knew he needed. He smiled back, sort of, but it was an uncertain, skeptical sort of smile.

And suddenly she was keenly aware that she wasn't performing well enough. She wasn't _acting_ the way someone in her position was supposed to act. It bothered them, she knew, that she wasn't worried about the curse. They read her reaction—or lack thereof—as apathy, as a sign that she no longer cared what happened to her.

And maybe she didn't. Because when she caught herself gazing off at nothing or getting lost in thought, it wasn't herself, _her_life, that she found her mind dwelling on. Not her life, but _his_…

_Draco…_

Her gaze softened. Where was he, she wondered? Was he safe? Would she see him again? She had the sinking feeling that he wasn't—that she wouldn't.

_There's always more, isn't there…_

She had to believe that now—had to. It was the only thing keeping her afloat.

She turned her tired eyes back to the black words on the page. Fate was a funny thing, she thought with grim amusement. It had a way of misleading you, making you feel so secure in one moment—pulling the rug out from under you in the next. It dangled dreams and wishes on a string before your eyes, made them seem so attainable, then snatched them away so that they were just out of reach.

Hermione had followed Dumbledore's directive. She had put her trust in Fate or God or whatever it was that made the world turn around. And once again she had been let down.

Worse still, she'd been _surprised_. She had expected it to end sooner or later—she'd told herself often enough that it would, that it had to. Still, when the moment had come, she'd been taken completely off guard. They'd said goodbye so many times and never really meant it. They'd said it so many times, and still it had never really been real. But this time… this time there had been no characteristic farewell, no longing looks cast back over their shoulders. And it terrified her. Because this time, for the first time, she couldn't feel him. All of a sudden he was just… gone. Without warning, without leaving a trace of himself behind. This time it felt… real. This time it felt _definite_. Could Fate really be so cruel, stringing them along again and again after every false farewell—and only truly ending it when they didn't have the chance to say goodbye?

"This is pointless," Ron declared suddenly, but Hermione was too deep in her own thoughts to hear him. Frustrated, the redhead pushed the book in front of him away and slouched down in his chair with his arms crossed over his chest. "If there's nothing in the archives, then I think it's safe to say there's not gonna be anything in the bloody school library."

Harry glanced at Hermione—was grateful for once that she was too far off in her own mind to hear them—before turning his warning eyes back on his friend. "If you don't want to help, you don't have to," he said through his teeth. "If you do, then stop whining and get back to work."

Ron rolled his eyes. "Work," he laughed, but it came out bitter. "What a joke. This process is as amateur as it's ever been."

Harry searched for patience. "It's worked before," he reminded his restless friend, repeating the stock phrase for what felt like the thousandth time in seven years.

Ron only slowly shook his head. "This isn't like the other times, Harry," he told him quietly. His desperate gaze flickered to Hermione. "This isn't like the other times."

Harry's jaw tightened, his haunted gaze following his friend's. They watched her—dark, distressed, disheartened.

It was Ginny's voice that broke in, bringing them back, grounding them. "Come on now, boys," she said before they could fall too far into their fears. "We have a long way to go. Let's not get discouraged just yet."

Both men slowly brought their gazes away from Hermione, reluctantly forced them back to the books piled up before them.

Silence fell, the rustling of book leaves the only sound. Time passed—a lifetime moving in gradual increments. More than an hour had gone by when a newcomer brought their gazes up once again.

It was Madam Pince, the irritable librarian, who approached them with resentful eyes and a stack of thick, encyclopedia-sized books. "The volumes you ordered, Miss Granger." She spent a moment carefully placing them on the table, making sure not to scratch the leather covers, making sure the ends lined up exactly so. She sliced a distrustful look at the Head Girl as she straightened. "What is this—research for Muggle Studies?" she asked suspiciously.

Hermione's eyes lifted, then fell again. "Research," she said, confirming that and nothing more.

The librarian crossed her willowy arms, which were covered in the characteristic drab long-sleeves. "Well, I can't permit you to leave the library with them," she sniffed. "They're on loan, you understand."

Hermione nodded once. "I understand."

"If you so much as try to sneak them out—"

"She said," Harry broke in, forcing a smile, "she understands."

Madam Pince's vigilant gaze snapped to his. She lingered, reluctant to leave the valuable books in their hands. Pointedly, her eyes shifted around the square table, slanting with doubt and disapproval. These students in particular were among her most nefarious, guilty of the gravest of library crimes. She glared first at Ginny Weasley, who had the nasty habit of bunny-earring the pages instead of using a proper bookmark—then at the girl's brother, Ronald, who never could learn the meaning of 'indoor voice'—then at Harry Potter, who took mountains of books off the shelves and never put them back where they belonged—and finally at the Head Girl, who although was admittedly very respectful of the books themselves, rarely managed to return the ones she checked out when they were due.

Yes, the librarian had decided long ago that these four were among the most nefarious. They were always here, it seemed, snooping about the bookshelves—what they were so eager to find, she had never been able to uncover. They didn't adhere to the rules—that was all she knew for sure, all she needed to know. More than once, Argus Filch had caught the older three here in the middle of the night, long after closing—long after curfew! So whatever they were up to, she was absolutely certain it was no good.

She raised her chin. "I'll be keeping my eye on the four of you," she warned.

Harry kept on that friendly smile. "You always do."

The woman's eyes narrowed suspiciously at the agreeable tone. She would have stayed and interrogated them further, but the sound of books tumbling unceremoniously to the ground perked up her ears from across the room.

Harry watched as she turned on her heel to stalk after the sound—smiled even wider and more pleasantly when she slanted one last mistrustful look over her shoulder. When he was sure she was busy bothering some other unfortunate group of students, he took one heavy book from off the tall tower. "What are they really?" he asked Hermione, studying the cover.

Hermione let one hand slide over the cool leather binding. "Translations of Old English chronicles. Muggle ones," she told him quietly.

"What good will those do?" Ginny asked with a frown.

Hermione shrugged a weak shoulder. "I don't know. None probably," she said. "But no one is finding anything anywhere else. I figured expanding the search couldn't hurt any."

Ron crossed his arms. "Why? What could _muggles_ possibly know about—" He looked around, "about _this_?" he finished with irritable skepticism.

Hermione carefully slid the book away from Harry until it was face-up on the table before her. "Most of these were written back before the separation of worlds," she said quietly, "when muggles and wizards were still living amongst each other." Slowly, she opened the heavy cover, traced a finger over the words on the title page. "Back then it was customary for the English kings to employ scribes to chronicle the histories for their future successors."

Ron made a face. "So? What's that got to do with anything?"

Hermione waited a moment. "Well… according to what we know from Cuthbert of Hexham, the original function of the curse was to keep two people from plotting against each other. To protect them."

"_And?_"

Usually Hermione would have reacted to Ron's characteristic impatience—with a fond smile, perhaps, or an aggravated roll of her eyes. Now, however, she was inspired to do neither, to do nothing—could barely even muster up the motivation to go on.

She did, though. The intent, alert pairs of eyes on her demanded it. "And so I thought to myself—who would want or need such a curse in the Middle Ages? Who back then would be afraid of being plotted against."

Harry's eyes narrowed slowly. "The king."

Hermione nodded. "Nobility was ruthless back then. Whole centuries were stained with corruption and power struggles and bloodshed over titles and land."

"Not a lot's changed."

"Greed and ambition rarely do," Ginny quipped dryly.

Involuntarily, Hermione remembered the white hall of marble sculptures, the walls adorned with oil-paint masterpieces in ornate frames. The spoils of war, Draco had called the purloined treasures as he'd surveyed them. There'd been such dullness in his eyes, such bitterness. Each timeless piece had been a trophy, a reminder of battles won, of enemies defeated—of innocent blood spilt, of innocent victims stolen from. Still somehow she had felt so at peace, so _at__home_ in that paradise—had felt it even though she'd been acutely aware that it was merely hell dressed up to _look_ like heaven.

She cleared her throat, bringing back her wayward thoughts, bringing down her far-gazing eyes. "Anyway, I thought the curse might have been commissioned by a ruler who suspected there may be plots to murder him for the crown. And if I'm right, the best place to find an account of who or when or what exactly happened would be… in these." She rested a hand on the thick book before her. "The compiled chronicles of England and its kings."

Harry's gaze looked from Hermione to the heavy pile that the librarian had left behind. And then suddenly he was shoving his own book away and pulling one of the remaining volumes from the top of the new stack. "Alright. Everyone take one," he commanded quietly, and they did, Ron and Ginny each opening a volume and beginning to read.

Silence fell again. The long hand on the clock circled around—one time, two. The sun began to set, though the four Gryffindor friends were too engrossed to notice the passing time or the growing number of tables that were emptying around them. No one spoke or even looked up—not until Ginny's unsteady voice broke through the careful focus.

"Oh my God, I… I think I've actually found something."

Harry and Ron's eyes both shot up, but Hermione's trailed slowly after, as if dreading the sight she knew she'd find there. "What?" she forced herself to whisper.

The pressure of two alert gazes—and one dismayed one—had the redhead suddenly flustered. "It's, um, something about a border war in 764 A.D. between…" her eyes hurriedly rescanned the page,  
"Corliss of Kent and Hildibjorn of Sussex." She looked up again. "Basically Hildibjorn was being a classic prick about the fact that Kent was essentially in the hands of a woman. He thought he could use it as an opportunity to manipulate the border and seize Kent for himself."

Harry nodded slowly, trying to follow. "Right..."

"Right, and then, um…" She looked back down, ran her finger along the words. "Bloodshed, bloodshed, bloodshed," she summarized, her eyes scouring for the next relevant part.

Patience was thin. "Right. Get to the point."

Ginny's eyes rushed from one side of the page to the other, trying to do just that. "And then they arranged, like, a ceasefire, you know, to meet and try to find a peaceful solution. And this is what it says." She brought the heavy book closer to her face until the words were just under her eyes. "'The queen kept council with a man of knowledge who was well-learned in sacred books; and when Hildibjorn arrived with his train for parley, he found himself utterly conspired against. He was soon trapped into a most unhappy union: the sage bound them each to the other, joining them in life, never again to be separate. And so peace was declared for the sake of this jointure, their noble thanes laying down arms and crying pax.'"

When she looked up again she found her brother staring at her with aggravated eyes. "It doesn't say anything about the curse," he said impatiently.

She rolled her eyes. "Not _explicitly_, Ronald. But come on—a man with sacred books who bound them together, joining them in _life_, never again to be separate, therefore forcing them to declare a truce?" She sent him a speaking glance. "It sounds like the curse to me."

"It _sounds_ like an arranged marriage," Ron snapped back.

She looked to Harry for help, but he could only shrug a shoulder. "He has a point, Gin," he told her ruefully.

But Hermione shook her head, a thoughtful frown marring her brows. "She's right," she informed them quietly. "The language is ambiguous on purpose."

The boys both wore agitated looks as they waited, barely patient, for the girls to explain. Ginny sighed loudly. "If you paid any attention at all to your professors you'd know that this was a time of rising tension between muggles and wizards," she told them, tapping the tip of her index finger against the open page. "It's pretty much safe to say that the kings didn't want it on the record that they had anything to do with a population that was becoming utterly feared and resented." She looked back down to the volume. "Using 'man of knowledge' instead of 'wizard' would be a clever way of dressing up the truth to avoid the negative repercussions of being associated with magic."

"Union, jointure—those words mean marriage," Harry reasoned.

"The curse _is_ a marriage, Harry," Hermione cut in dully, her eyes staring off absently into the endless bookshelves once again. "It connects two people together. It does literally what legal marriage does metaphorically—binds two souls together as one." She swallowed, forced her gaze to refocus, forced it to search out Ginny's with a faded, mustered-up smile. "Does it say anything else?" she asked the girl dutifully.

Ginny's blue eyes read ahead. She nodded slowly. "'The rulers seemed from then on undoubtedly intertwined. They looked after one another's care insistently and with much tenderness, and when Corliss fell ill for some months, Hildibjorn was overcome and became equally afflicted''" She paused for a moment, swallowing reluctantly… "'They died on the same day in the harsh of winter, 769 A.D.'"

Hermione's gaze fell down to the thin hands that lay limply in her lap. "Died on the same day," she whispered numbly.

The other three shared long, haunted looks in silence. "We can't even be sure that it _was_the curse," Ron tried to reassure her forcefully after a moment. "It could all just be a coincidence." The cynical looks the others sent him made him take a breath. "Well even if it was, it doesn't mean that there wasn't a counter-curse. It doesn't mean that there _isn__'__t_ one. Right?" He tried to sound certain, or at the very least determined, but when he sought out Harry's gaze, the doubt was there. And the vulnerability.

Harry said nothing, only watched Hermione with troubled eyes.

Ginny saw the way he looked at their friend, and all the emotion he was feeling for Hermione, she was feeling too—for him. She suddenly had to fill the silence, to say something, anything that would ease the dread and the pain. "There had to have been a counter-curse," she told him quietly, encouragingly. He glanced at her briefly, his emerald eyes cynical. "There had to have been," she insisted before he could look away. "The fact that Corliss was dying and not Hildibjorn—_that_must be the reason why the curse was never lifted." She looked around the emptying library, lowered her voice. "I mean... think about it, she had to have had a cure. What if _he_had gotten sick first or had had an accident or something like that. Dying with him would have completely defeated the point."

"The point?" Ron asked doubtfully.

Hermione's brows furrowed slowly. "To protect herself," she said quietly.

Ginny nodded more earnestly now, feeling as if she'd reached out blindly in the dark and actually stumbled upon something solid to hold on to. Her gaze searched out Harry's gaze, held it. "She would have lifted it if he'd gotten ill. But he didn't. _She_did. And the only way to keep her kingdom safe from Hildibjorn and her throne with the proper heirs was to make sure he died with her." She nodded when the boys still looked unconvinced. "There _is_ a counter," she insisted. "She never would have risked her life without being sure she could control the outcome." She looked at him meaningfully. "No one would."

It sounded logical enough to bring Harry back. It wasn't even really the words, the rationale—it was the sound of her voice, so calming, so certain, that eased the suffocating chokehold that was gripping his heart. How did she always do that, he wondered. How, when the entire world was bearing down upon his shoulders, did she alleviate his burdens with merely a whispered word and a reassuring glance?

"Yeah," he breathed, one corner of his mouth flickering upward. He held her gaze as if was somehow it was the only thing keeping him grounded. "Good thinking."

Ginny felt the way his desperate eyes latched onto hers like a lifeline, forced a sardonic smile onto her lips in an attempt to make things casual. "Well I _am_at the top of my class, Harry," she reminded him wryly. "They didn't make me a Prefect because of my good looks." And then she tilted her head, regarding him with a small smile. "See what happens when you let me participate?"

Harry didn't tell her that her presence was as unsettling as it was soothing. He didn't tell her that he wanted her to leave—needed her to stay. This wasn't the time for that.

Perhaps that time would never come.

"We'll keep reading," was all he said. "Maybe we'll come across something more concrete."

Silence fell once more, the long hand on the clock almost making another full circle when, again, an alert voice broke through the quiet.

"What was the name of that queen again?" Ron asked, his gaze suddenly shooting up to Ginny's.

"Corliss of Kent."

Ron's eyes flickered back to the page, widened. "Yeah. Yeah, I definitely found something." The others let their own volumes drop, their attention instantly riveted on the ruddy-faced redhead. "It's from 956 AD, when King Eadwig and his brother Edgar were warring over the throne." He cleared his throat. "'His thanes devastated at Gloucester, young Eadwig turned to the wisdom of his ancestors, reading, among others, the annals of Corliss, and interpreting therein some solution to his predicament. He pursued this relentlessly and against much sound advisement, for it was a drastic and dangerous scheme, until the time in which it was most irreversibly laid. Upon learning what extreme measures his brother had undertaken, Edgar, for the time, had no choice but to treaty. Bound by the pact, Eadwig retained rule of Wessex and Kent, as Edgar reigned over Northumbria and Mercia. This was the way until some years later when the latter came by the means…'" He glanced up, wide-eyed, aware…"The means to break it." He looked back down, reading faster now. "'Fair Eadwig was soon undone and buried at Old Minster; upon this woeful occasion and with the support of the church, Edgar the Peaceable ascended to the throne, reuniting once and for all the divided kingdoms_._'"

There was silence. Again, the language wasn't exactly precise. But it was obvious enough to one who knew how to read between the lines. A drastic and dangerous scheme, a forced pact—a curse cast on two brothers to keep them from killing one another over the crown. But that "pact" had been broken. Not lifted, but broken.

All was quiet until finally Harry spoke. "He broke the curse," he stated in awe.

Ron swallowed. "It doesn't say how," he pointed out sullenly.

But Harry wasn't about to get hung up on mere details when he'd just been hit with a searing ray of hope. "Yeah," he agreed. "But he did it. He found a way. Which means that there _is_a way. And if there's a way, we can find it." His hand had somehow automatically found its way into Ginny's, squeezing, letting relief course through his constricted veins. "There's a cure. It's out there somewhere." He believed it now so strongly that it was as if he'd never felt so much as a lick of doubt.

Before they could even think to turn back to the chronicles for further answers, Madam Pince was reaching over them, snatching the volumes away. "It's eight o'clock. The library is closed now," she snapped curtly. "The four of you had better be moving along."

They looked around and realized that the lights were dim, the tables vacant. Sighing, they rose and dutifully piled the remaining books up into their hands, careful to replace them in their correct spots on the shelves as Pince watched their every movement with hostile, hawk-like eyes. They collected their belongings, threw their book bags over their shoulders, and paced reluctantly together towards the door.

But for the first time since long before Christmas, the heaviness seemed to be gone from their step. They headed towards the Great Hall and for once felt free to laugh, to joke, to carry on as usual. They would continue their search tomorrow, of course. Their worrying would inevitably pick up where it had left off. But for now it seemed to be enough to know that there was actually something to search for, that there _was_ in fact a needle in the haystack, that the answers were out there waiting, that this wasn't all in vain. It seemed to be enough, this feeling that they really could fix things, this feeling that somehow, some way, everything would turn out all right.

They were so wrapped up in the small-scale victory that they didn't notice the way Hermione gazed at the Slytherin table at dinner. They didn't see the absent, longing glances she gave to the empty archway, as if waiting or wishing for some unknown person to appear.

They didn't know she didn't give a damn about new discoveries—not unless they contained information about the welfare or whereabouts of Draco Malfoy.

* * *

The silence was electric in the hidden chamber beneath the Parkinson's parlor. Draco stood straight, hands crossed edgily over his chest, spine rigid as it leaned back against the wall. Slowly, resentfully, his eyes surveyed his surroundings. The secret room had no more subtlety than the rest of the estate, he observed with disgust. Dim droplet flames burned from solid gold candlesticks. Art adorned the walls in solid gold frames. The furniture was more decorative than functional, stiff and classic when it should have been soft and comfortable. Parkinson had seen to it that if his friends had to hide, they would do so in so-called luxury. Of course, he had _also_ seen to it that they'd have stiff muscles and sore backs when it was finally time to come out again. Luxury, indeed!

Draco let his eyes settle darkly on the deep red carpet. He felt more than saw his father pacing in front of him, stopping every once in a while to raise his vigilant eyes to the ceiling. Like his son, he was no doubt contemplating the safe-room with disapproval, though more for its location than its interior design. The Parkinson predecessors had constructed it directly beneath the drawing room, no doubt to make it quickly and easily accessible to guests, who were traditionally received in the room. The flaw, of course, was that the drawing room was used for receiving all sorts of people—even the _Aurors_ that said guests were typically hiding from. As far as Lucius and Draco Malfoy were concerned, the proximity was a bit too close for comfort.

"Sit down, dearest," Narcissa begged quietly, her voice a whisper that barely dared to travel from her place on a floral-patterned settee.

Lucius' gaze snapped dangerously to her. He held a hushing finger to his lips, then slowly turned and picked up his pacing again. Narcissa sighed, her eyes lifting, landing on the ceiling, watching it warily as if she feared it might crumble.

Draco looked dully from his mother to his father, then back down to the blood-red floor. The aftershocks of the Mark were finally breaking through to the surface. Over the course of a single night, _this_was what his life had turned into… a hurried escape down secret passageways, a hideout out in secret rooms, a race against time, a game of hide-and-seek with the Aurors. This was the path he'd been afraid to follow. This was the fate he hadn't wanted to face.

And Hermione was gone. Worse, she was in danger!

And he had put her there. It was his fault.

A clicking sound echoed through the room. Each pair of eyes snapped alertly to the door, where the fancy lock was being opened. Lucius and Draco both had their wands up in an instant, pointed and ready for whoever appeared.

The tension was tangible as the door pushed open. But it was Upton Parkinson's silhouette outlined in the dim lamplight that spilled down the staircase from the sitting room. "You can put those away," his deep voice reassured them, opening the door wide, beckoning them to follow him up the stairs and through the trick door. "It's safe."

"You're certain?" Narcissa asked, rising stiffly from the settee, an unsteady hand held against her cold heart.

"I saw the Minister and his posse out myself," he told them dryly. "They didn't suspect a thing."

"If they didn't suspect a thing then they wouldn't have come here, now would they?" Lucius snapped. "Did they look around?"

"They tried to, anyway," Parkinson answered jovially. "I was very cooperative, of course, and let them conduct their little search as a show of good faith. They even brought out their little locating contraptions, but these hidden rooms are all charmed to pass their silly tests."

Lucius didn't seem nearly as amused. "What did they say?" he asked, still stern, still pacing.

"Nothing of consequence. They asked all the routine questions—have we heard from you, might we know where you'd go to hide." He flashed a smile, his tongue tucked into one cheek as if this was the most fun he could remember having. "We played polite and ignorant, of course," he assured them. "They ran out of questions to ask. After a while they couldn't come up with any further excuses to stay."

Lucius was still pacing, his hands balled into fists, his jaw clenched tight.

"Come, Lucius, stop your marching. It's making me dizzy." Upton glanced at Draco, but his interested gaze only stayed for a moment before turning to scan concernedly over the statuesque woman who stood before him. "You must be cold, Narcissa. There's a terrible draft on these half-levels of the house." He held out a supportive hand. "Come upstairs and my Regina will pour us some whiskey."

"I prefer wine," was Narcissa's cool reply. She waved away the arm she was offered, instead turning to her husband, taking a soothing hold of his arm, forcing him to relax. She looked over her shoulder as they began to exit. "Come along, Draco," she called idly, as if her son was some sort of servant or pet. "We'll have some wine."

Draco was still a moment. "I prefer whiskey," he said finally, pushing off the wall with hard, unreadable eyes.

Parkinson laughed jauntily. "Oh-ho! There's a lad after my own heart!" he praised, and Draco gritted his teeth, reigning in patience as he felt the man's wide hand slap painfully into his back. "Come, come then, boy, and we'll pour us some drinks."

Draco was guided rather roughly up the stone staircase, through the hidden portrait entrance and back into the drawing room. Regina Parkinson was waiting for them just inside, reaching a hand out to Narcissa in particular. "I'm sorry for the trouble, Narcissa, dear," she cooed ruefully in a voice that sounded uncomfortably like Pansy's. "They're boars, those Ministry men. They had no right coming here, no right at all." The blonde woman only nodded as her friend took her cold hand. "Oh, your fingers are like ice," Regina gasped, warming it in both of hers. "Poor thing—I'll have a blanket fetched at once." As if on cue, a house-elf appeared with a folded blanket for its mistress, and then disappeared again without a word. "Here you are…" Regina wrapped the warm thing around the other woman's delicate shoulders.

Narcissa accepted the quilt, clasping the two ends close to her chest without a "thank you" or even a grateful smile.

A gold fire was burning atop the ashen remnants of the Minister's floo powder. Orange light bounced against the walls, blending with the white glow of candle flames, bathing the room in that same warm, elusive color as the sunset. Heat from the flames diffused outward, slowly heating the winter-chilled room.

Draco stood by one large window, his hand pulling the deep red curtain back just enough for one eye to peer outside. The sun was setting behind the English hills, leaving the reflection of gentle pinks and yellows against the snow. He thought of Hermione, of their staggering view from the balcony. The sunset here seemed dark and bland in comparison.

"Your whiskey, son," Parkinson said, approaching him, and again Draco had to reign in hard on patience. The use of that _particular_ word by Pansy's _father_ was about as welcome as a Dementor's Kiss. He released the curtain and turned to the older man, who held out a glass for him to take.

But just as he reached forward, a careful tapping noise sounded from behind him. All eyes sliced back to the thick curtain, where behind the glass, they knew something or someone was waiting.

Everyone went still. The crackle of the flames was the only sound.

"Get away from the window," Parkinson commanded, his voice somewhere between a whisper and silence.

Draco stiffened with awareness. Slowly, silently, he slithered to the side.

Upton's alert eyes went to Lucius, who was already retreating out of the window's line of sight, his wand gripped in one hand, his wife gripped in the other. Drawing his own wand, the master of the house turned back to the window—carefully peeled the curtain away.

It wasn't an Auror or Ministry man that waited on the other side, but a bird.

"It's just a carrier," Parkinson told them. Still, he was cautious as he reached up and opened the window. He was wary enough to draw the curtain closed again as soon as the bird had floated inside.

Draco's jaw clenched and his eyes dulled as the familiar raven flew to him, dropping a tiny parcel into the hand he automatically outstretched. "It's alright," he told the other men, who had come forward with their wands drawn. "I know this bird. She belongs to the Dark Lord."

Both men slowly lowered their arms, looking skeptically between each other. "Well," Lucius prompted expectantly when his son made no move. "What are you standing there for? Open it."

Draco's face was like stone as he obeyed. The bird hopped from its makeshift perch and floated over to the warm mantelpiece, where it was succinctly ignored. Everyone's focus shifted to the small black box, the one that felt like an anvil in Draco's hand.

Slowly, carefully, he pulled the gleaming black ribbon free from its knot and let it fall forgotten to the floor. Breathing calmly, he pushed open the hinged cover.

And immediately wished that he hadn't.

Regina Parkinson gasped at what she saw nestled within, and even the remote Narcissa Malfoy had awestruck eyes.

To say it was a ring would have been an understatement. No, this was a masterpiece all its own. A small gold band was mostly hidden, tucked inside the slit that kept it secure within the ring box. A large oval emerald sat cushioned at its crest, cut to perfection, its intricate facets glimmering like the mesmerizing fires of hell. Around the glittering gem was a halo of smaller jewels—round black and white diamonds that interchanged, one gleaming color and then the other, as they clung to the side of their deep green master. Though the combination dazzled, it was sinister as well. The ring looked as though it belonged on some vampire queen or underworld goddess, all flash and drama and dark regality.

Draco's eyes drifted from the sparkling monstrosity to the message it came with. The slanted script had his jaw clenching tight.

_I trust you know which of your women to give it to._

Draco had to work hard to keep the muscles of his hand and arm relaxed, had to hold himself back from crumpling the bating words in his fist and throwing them hard into the fire.

Quietly, calmly, he closed the box, his every movement carefully controlled. There was silence in the room, making the crackle of flames seem to echo like thunder against the walls. Four pairs of eyes were alert, watching him, waiting. The eagerness in them was almost simmering.

Slowly, Draco turned to them. He forced himself to look up, to keep his posture straight, to keep his eyes inscrutable. Still, there was defeat there, dark and deep.

"Send for Pansy."

* * *

Hermione walked down the main staircase the next morning, flanked on either side by her two defensive friends.

The events of Christmas morning had officially cut off the last straining strand of her independence. To avoid the alternative—which had involved an official protective detail provided by the Ministry—Hermione had reluctantly agreed to keep someone with her at all times. As a result, Harry and Ron were at her side twenty-four/seven, escorting her to classes and taking turns sleeping on a cot in her room. Dumbledore, of course, had approved the whole arrangement, knowing that a Ministry presence at Hogwarts would cause more problems than it would solve. He, too, required a daily check-in from the Head Girl so that he could be properly informed when he, in turn, reported back to the Minister. A daily visit to the infirmary had also been agreed upon so that Madam Pomfrey could look her over and assess any changes in her condition.

There were none, of course—though whether it was a good thing or a bad thing remained to be seen.

It was exhausting, the endless battery of questions—the parrot-like voices that seemed to echo again and again. How many times a day did she need to be asked how she was feeling—if she needed anything—was she all right? How many times a day must she repeat the same bloody answer? She was tired of having those worried gazes always on her—tired of trying not to worry them when they insisted on doing it regardless.

But, of course, she knew it wasn't their fault. This was bigger now then anyone had ever imagined it could become. And though mayhem was threatening to break loose at any moment, it was _her_welfare they were most concerned about—her safety they agonized over, despite the fact that really she was the only one of them who _was_safe, thanks to the curse.

Ginny caught up with the trio as they made their way down the corridor. "Headed to breakfast?" she asked when she'd perceived their intended direction.

"Yeah. You?"

"I'm off to the loo," she told them cheerfully, causing both boys to let out a sound of disgust. "What?" she replied innocently. "You asked." And then she was pushing her way through the protective barrier and unceremoniously dragging Hermione away from them. "Hermione's coming with me," she announced, linking arms with the silent girl, trapping her. "Come on, Mione."

"But—"

"But nothing," the redhead silenced Harry. "You're with her every minute of every day. I haven't had a moment alone with her in _ages_!" The black-haired boy looked like he was about to argue against that bit of exaggeration, but she cut him off before he could. "Come on, Harry. It's the loo. Nothing's going to happen." A smile flashed as she saw his shoulders slump in reluctant surrender. "We'll meet you in the Great Hall. Save our seats, will you?"

"Maybe," Ron put in, crossing his arms. "Why must you women always go to the toilet in pairs anyway?" he asked moodily. "It's not like you need _help_ or anything."

"You wouldn't understand, Ronald. It's a girl thing." And then she pulled a compliant Hermione away.

The large bathroom was already well occupied. Girls were streaming to and from the stalls, and some were sprinkled in front of the sinks, washing their hands, touching up their make-up, examining their freckles and blemishes in the mirrors. Hermione recognized two girls in particular who were chatting as they absently inspected their reflections—Susan Bones, who was arranging her hair into a braid over one shoulder, and their good friend Gwen Carver, who was smoothing one perfectly-arched eyebrow with her fingertip.

Gwen paused mid-sentence when she found her friends' reflections in the mirror. "Ladies," she greeted, wiggling her eyebrows.

"Miss Carver," Ginny returned, smiling but not stopping as she made her way to the nearest open stall.

Hermione nodded awkwardly to the girls, but said nothing. Moving to the row of sinks opposite theirs, she tried to look busy with her own hair, combing her fingers through the long curls, halfheartedly detangling them.

They returned to preening, picking up their conversation where it had left off. "Anyway—did you _see_that rock Parkinson's been flashing around all morning?" Susan asked Gwen as she secured the bottom of her braid with an elastic band.

Hermione frowned, her hand pausing in her hair, her eyes shifting from her own reflection to watch the two girls chatting behind her.

"See it?" Gwen replied irritably. "She all but shoved the glittering mess in my face. I nearly went blind, that's how well I saw it."

The Hufflepuff girl nodded emphatically. "That jewel is so big it's almost inconvenient," she put in, half in admiration, half in disapproval. "I mean, a decent-sized one—even a rather large one—would have sufficed. But that enormous thing is bordering on ridiculous! And all those diamonds around it? Too much is too much!"

"Really, who does she think she is?" Gwen agreed, rolling her eyes.

"A princess."

The blonde girl snorted indelicately. "Well I haven't seen a crown," she quipped sarcastically, "though I'm sure she's commissioned one to go along with that _Christmas__ornament_ on her finger."

Hermione's hands sought blindly for the faucet. Turning it on, she ran the one that wasn't bandaged under the hot water, frowning absently as she listened to the harmless gossip. The liquid fell smoothly over her fingers, but it did nothing to warm the sudden chill that had taken hold.

"It sounds like the two of you are suffering from the effects of jealousy," a new, silk-smooth voice accused. Hermione's gaze fell from the mirror to her hands as Draco's former paramour, Greta Berg, emerged from a bathroom stall. "Even _I_ can admit that the ring is like a fairytale," she said as she washed her hands. "It's gorgeous."

"Yeah, in a pretentious, gaudy sort of way," Gwen said with distaste.

Greta's dark eyes danced. "Since when can a jewel be too big?" she asked dryly. She shook her head slowly, as if the idea amused her. "Hate the player, ladies, don't hate the game." And then she smiled. "Or in this case—hate the princess, don't hate the ring." She laughed, a breathless song of air, when the other girls raised their eyebrows skeptically. "Come on, I have a better excuse than all of you put together for utterly detesting that haughty bint." She ran a casual hand through the long blonde hair that had taken weeks of Pomfrey's treatments to grow back to its full length. "Still, I'm a good enough sport to call it like I see it," she told them. "And as I see it, that ring is entirely enviable."

Susan shrugged a diffident shoulder. "It's fit for Slytherin royalty anyway," she reluctantly allowed, "with that massive emerald and all those black and white diamonds." She turned, leaning back against the edge of the sink, sighing glumly. "It must have cost her family a fortune."

"Mere Knuts to them," Gwen dismissed with a wave of her hand. "The Parkinsons could buy all of England without even putting a dent in their pockets."

Greta leveled a wry look in their direction. "If you think her _parents_ bought her that rock, I'm sorry to say you couldn't be more wrong," she told them blandly.

Hermione's chin shifted subtly towards her shoulder, bringing her ear but not her troubled eyes around.

The other girls were frowning. "What do you mean?"

Greta laughed lightly. "Didn't you notice what finger she was wearing it on?"

The girls bristled. "Well, yes. But I wouldn't have thought…" Susan trailed off, shaking her head. "I mean, she's so _young_."

Greta inspected her long fingernails aloofly. "Girls with fortunes and bloodlines like hers are always being married off early and getting pregnant straight out of school. That's the way it works with the upper sort."

Hermione could suddenly feel her heart pounding painfully in her chest… could feel her blood pulse in her veins, could hear the beat of it in her head. She looked back to the mirror, back to the dull brown eyes that looked back at her. She could feel her breath getting short and shallow. Her hands held the sides of the porcelain sink, gripping as if somehow it would steady her. But the words were like bees buzzing around in her brain, making her dizzy, stinging her heart.

_Ring… married off young… That's the way it works…_

The echo of another toilet flushing sounded against the walls, and Hermione could see Ginny's ginger hair out of the corner of her eye. She didn't turn though—couldn't move. So she focused on keeping her breath steady, her heartbeat calm.

"You're saying she's engaged?" the redhead asked doubtfully, going to the sink beside Gwen and washing her hands.

Greta answered with a humorous smile and meaningful shrug. Hermione felt her world tilt to the side.

Ginny's lip curled up in disgust. "Ugh! What self-respecting chap would willingly shackle himself to _Parkinson_ for the rest of his life?"

"One who has the power to break the chains when he wants," Greta told them easily. "One who's mastered having his cake and eating it too."

The girls looked between each other. "Who do you mean?" Gwen asked.

Greta raised her brow wryly, fondly. "Who do you think?"

Ginny's eyes widened—then immediately narrowed into spiteful slits. "Draco Malfoy."

The name seemed to echo, ricocheting violently against the corners of Hermione's mind.

_Draco Malfoy… Draco Malfoy… Draco Malfoy…_

And then her knees began to buckle. She saw dots of bright light flashing like tiny stars before her eyes. And then she saw nothing at all.

The girls saw her collapse out of the corners of their eyes, heard the heavy _thump_of her frail form hitting the floor before they could reach her.

"Hermione!" Ginny was immediately on her knees beside her friend, urgently shaking her shoulders, trying to wake her. "Mione, can you hear me?" She pushed long ringlets away from the girl's face. "Mione," she tried to rouse her, "Hermione!" Like Ginny, Gwen scrambled to her knees on the tiles, taking Hermione's hand and lightly patting it, trying to get some kind of response. They felt more than saw every girl in the bathroom crowd around them, worriedly trying to see what was wrong.

But Hermione didn't so much as stir.

"Should I get a professor?" Susan asked anxiously, peering over them.

"Find my brother," Ginny instructed, gently pulling Hermione up so that she lay across her lap. "Or Harry. They were on their way to breakfast." Susan nodded and rushed out the door.

Greta pulled paper towels from their box on the wall, crumpling them up and holding them beneath the still-running faucet, calmly squeezing the excess water into the basin once it was soaked. "Here—" she said, pushing her way through the group of girls and handing the compress down to Ginny.

The redhead took the wad without a word and immediately began to dab Hermione's forehead.

"What's wrong with her?" Greta asked, standing over them with crossed arms.

Ginny frowned down at her unconscious friend, trying not to let her own unsteady pulse get the better of her. It could be anything—old pain from the dreadful incident on balcony, new pain from her "stay" at Malfoy Manor, from the curse.

_Or_ it could have been the mention of that _snake_, Draco Malfoy, who was no doubt an overwhelming reminder of both.

All Ginny knew was that even the smallest ailment must be treated as if it were a matter of life and death.

"She must've passed out," Ginny replied tensely. She glanced up. "She's still weak from that fall a few months ago." It wasn't really a lie, but it wasn't really the truth either. And not knowing the real answer had panic building under the surface. Her pulse pumped with the effort to stay calm. "Check outside and see if Harry and Ron are close, will you?"

The door was thrust open before the girl could even take a step.

"Jesus." Harry pushed his way through the onlookers, Ron trailing just after him, and Gwen moved to the side so they could take her spot on the floor. Both boys bent over Hermione, the redheaded one immediately beginning to run his hands over her, checking for injuries while the black-haired one focused on rousing her. "Mione." His palms gripped the sides of her face. "Hermione," he tried again, but she wasn't waking. His eyes glanced up to Ginny's. "Nothing's going to happen, eh?" he asked her darkly.

Ginny could only shrug helplessly. "I don't know what's wrong. She just… fainted."

"Fainted?" Harry's eyes narrowed. And then he was waving the crowd away. "Back up, back up. She needs some air," he commanded. The girls reluctantly obeyed, stepping away so that there was open space between them and the group still huddled on the floor. He looked cautiously back at Ginny, and when he spoke again his voice was furtive. "She just collapsed?" he asked her suspiciously.

Ginny shrugged again and nodded. "One minute we were talking about Parkinson's engagement ring and the next minute she was on the floor unconscious."

Harry's brows furrowed. Parkinson was engaged?

Slowly, hauntedly, his gaze traveled back to Hermione. He didn't have to ask who the husband-to-be was.

He felt his jaw clench, the top of his teeth grinding painfully against the bottom. Draco Malfoy was just full of surprises, wasn't he? Learning that he was Voldemort's Heir had been the first unwelcome, if not entirely shocking development. Discovering that he had actually dared to _abduct_ Hermione—well, Harry hadn't predicted that either, but then it wasn't so very unbelievable. The bastard was capable of anything, after all. But actually _seeing_ the cascade of black and blue, the crusted, dried blood over swollen skin, the subtle imprints of shackles—_that_ had been the shock of a lifetime. And though he'd somehow remained deadly calm during their confrontation at Malfoy Manor, the blood in his veins had been singing for murder.

The biggest surprise of all, though, had been Hermione's response to it all—or, rather, her _lack_ of response. Harry had expected tears or trembling or accusations. He'd expected the need for answers, the need for _justice_—or at the very least, the need for reassurance, for support. But instead of displaying the gratitude or even the vulnerability of a rescued victim, she had been wary, patient, calm. Controlled. She seemed not to be surprised at all, as if all this was something she'd expected. She seemed to be holding back, as if she had some secret piece of the puzzle, a piece she didn't want to reveal because she knew it would change the whole picture.

She'd been cagey about what exactly had taken place that Christmas morning—had evaded talking to the Aurors about the matter altogether. He'd tried to tell himself it was because she didn't want to relive the trauma, but he couldn't get past the disturbing feeling that it was something else entirely. He couldn't get past the feeling that she was carefully guarding something—or some_one_. For Christ's sake, she hadn't even told _him_what had had happened! Instead she'd let him draw his own conclusions—and though she hadn't corrected him or denied his deductions, the twinge of one vague but unsettling thought kept creeping its back way in…

That he didn't have the whole story. That there was something else going on here, that things weren't what they seemed.

That the final picture in his mind wasn't complete… or even correct.

But this newest surprise suddenly had all the doubt draining. It was suddenly crystal clear—Harry had been a fool. There was no other side of the story, no misunderstanding.

And as Harry looked at Hermione now, so weak, so utterly taken over, he could feel the pumping, pulsing rage burn back into him a hundred-fold. Because after everything that bastard had done, she still believed in him. She still believed his grand performance.

Her reticence wasn't because Draco Malfoy was really innocent. It was merely because she _wanted_ him to be.

Harry was furious. Furious with Malfoy for ever daring to come near her—furious with himself for letting it go on. He could see now definitively that the damage was done. Malfoy had sunk in his fangs and imbedded his poison so deep inside of her that not even being beaten and betrayed by him had given her second thoughts. Things were _exactly_what they seemed—Hermione just couldn't face it, didn't want to. She couldn't face that it was all a cruel charade. Saving her life, seducing her, making her fall in love with him—it had all been rooted in Voldemort's schemes. It had all been a part of his ruthless plan. Oh yes, Draco had played his part _damn_ well—Christ, he'd almost had Harry believing his bullshit! All those furtive glances, those times he'd followed her, watching her possessively without her knowing—he'd performed the role of the reluctant, conflicted admirer to the tee.

And he'd successfully lured his vulnerable prey straight into Voldemort's trap.

Now that the curse was cast and the work was done, there was no need for him to pretend any longer. He could go on with his life—with his whoring around, with his _engagement_. And he could discard a beaten and broken Hermione—no matter that she was still desperately in love with him, not matter that after everything he'd done to her, she was still doing everything she could not to sell him out.

A light moaning sound came from beneath him, breaking him out of his thoughts and causing the onlookers to press forward again. Ginny held the wet paper towel away from the girl's face as she began to come to. "Mione?"

Hermione's eyelids fluttered. Through blurry eyes she could see a small crowd hovering, some kneeling, the rest standing in a huddle over her. "Ginny… what…?" As she met the concerned blue eyes her memory rushed back in a sudden wild blaze. The bathroom… girls gossiping… a diamond ring… Pansy… _and__Draco_…

"You fainted," Ginny informed her gently. "You've been out cold for a good couple of minutes."

"Oh." After a moment of stillness, Hermione began to push herself upward.

"Easy, easy—don't try to stand." Ron scooped her up into his arms before she could argue, looking to Harry with business-like focus. "We need to get her to the Hospital Wing," he said, heaving her high against his chest.

"I'm fine," she insisted quietly, but her heartbeat was still unsteady. She looked imploringly between the boys. "I don't need the nurse."

"It might be—"

"It isn't," she promised them quietly. "I'm just really…" She searched for an adequate word. "Worn out."

But Harry and Ron were determined. "We'll take you to the infirmary to rest then," Harry told her. "Pomfrey will write you a note. Snape will understand."

"No he won't," Hermione argued quietly. She swallowed. "Besides I'm alright now. The feeling passed."

Harry and Ron didn't look convinced of that at all. "You're sure it has nothing to do with…" Ron paused, glancing guardedly around that the girls who were all listening and watching the exchange intently. "With that virus you caught last week," he covered carefully, his blue eyes coming back down to look meaningfully into the amber ones just under his.

"I'm sure. It's not the… virus." She wriggled weakly in his grasp. "So if you would just put me down..."

"You're sure you can stand?" Harry asked, concern furrowing his brows.

"I'm sure!" she insisted, struggling against her friend's chest until he was forced to carefully lower her legs back to the ground. He kept his hands on her back, trying to make sure she was steady, but she jerked herself away from him, pressing an unsteady hand to her temple. "I told you, I'm fine."

She wasn't fooling anyone, though. Not even herself.

* * *

They never made it to breakfast. The bell rang before the trio could get to the Great Hall, signaling the official start of the school day.

Harry and Ron kept Hermione between them as they made their way to Potions, gently ushering her, taking care to support her as she walked. They insisted she take her time, despite her reassurances that it wasn't necessary—despite the fact that they were surely already late. Life seemed to speed by around her as a result, the people zooming past seeming more like blurs of motion than solid beings. In contrast, she felt as if she were stuck in slow motion, her heart lethargic, heavy. The painstakingly slow beat of it was all she could hear inside her head.

She should have expected this, should have seen it coming. Pansy Parkinson had made her claim on Draco perfectly clear. Besides, Draco had never given Hermione any illusions. They'd both known their time together would be cut short, could never last. She'd known their brief interludes and chance encounters would run out, had known it would have to end eventually—without second chances, without second thoughts.

Her _mind_ had known, anyway. But it seemed her heart had remained strangely ignorant of the fact—or, rather, miserably delusional, having somehow clung onto a stray strand of false hope. Now that she'd been violently vaulted out of her dream world and back into reality, ache was beginning to pierce through her like needles, leaving pinpricks in her heart.

Snape was already speaking at the front of the classroom by the time the trio stepped over the threshold and into the room. "Late again," he observed blandly. "Thirty points from Gryffindor—ten for each of you. If you're tardy one more time, I will make it _fifteen_ for each."

Harry covered up his sneer with a smile. "So sorry, professor," he said, his voice a little too pleasant, as Ron gently guided Hermione into a seat.

Snape didn't answer. His eyes were unreadable as they watched the thin girl for an extra moment. He did not resume his lecture until he was certain she was completely situated in her chair. "Partner potions," he began, his arms crossed with amusement at the way the class collectively slumped in their seats. "Many of you may have thought that we were finished with our little group projects. I'm sure you'll all be relieved to learn that that is not the case."

"Bloody hell," Ron muttered.

Luckily Snape didn't hear him. "I'm happy to report that we'll be starting the new term with a new partner assignment," the professor went on, cherishing the groans that couldn't be repressed. "So if you would be so kind as to reunite with your appointed associate, whomever that may be…"

The sound of chair legs screeching against the floor thundered across the classroom, followed by the echo of reluctant sighs. Hermione felt, but didn't look, when Harry rose from beside her and moved to wherever Pansy Parkinson was waiting. He must've known that she wouldn't bother to try to search him out; being the haughty Slytherin Princess, she was used to making people come to her. Ron stayed planted beside her, however, and out of the corner of her eye, Hermione could see Crabbe's heavy form plop into the seat on his other side. Everyone else was doing the same thing, squeezing around each other, dragging their book bags along with them, reuniting with the person Snape had assigned them at the start of last term.

Everyone except for Hermione. Her partner—the person she most longed to reunite with—wasn't coming back.

She stayed completely still—stared straight ahead, her brown eyes remote.

_Why is it we don't have a choice…_

"Hermione Granger." The sound of her name brought her back from her thoughts. Snape waited patiently for her to meet his cool black gaze. "You and Zabini may pair up temporarily," he told her, "since I'm given to understand his partner will also be absent for the day."

Hesitantly, Hermione turned her head to look over her shoulder, where Blaise Zabini sat indifferently, an empty chair on one side—and Pansy Parkinson on the other. Licking her chapped lips, she turned her eyes back to the professor. "I can do the potion myself," she asserted unsteadily, almost desperately.

Snape's upper lip lifted. "Even if you could, that would quite defeat the purpose of a _partner__potion_, now wouldn't it?"

Hermione swallowed. "Please—"

"Maybe I didn't make myself clear," he interrupted impatiently. "This isn't a request, Miss Granger. You are to work on the potion with Blaise Zabini. Now gather your things and take the empty chair beside him."

There was a silent moment, a pause where Hermione and the professor watched one another, one with silently pleading eyes, the other with hard, unrelenting ones. Seeing that the professor was never going to cave, Hermione sighed and grabbed up her belongings. Slowly, she squeezed through the maze of chairs, making her way to the back of the classroom where her new partner was waiting with one dark eyebrow raised.

Harry scooted his chair forward to give her room to maneuver, not failing to notice the way she kept her gaze as far from Pansy Parkinson as it could get; it stayed averted, even when she had trouble getting past the girl, who wasn't nearly as polite about making room as he had been. He watched as Hermione finally did manage to make it to Zabini's other side, lowering to the seat with her eyes glued to the front of the classroom. It was as if she would rather die than look to her left, where between Blaise and himself, the Slytherin Princess sat regally in her seat.

"Open your textbooks to page 141. You'll find a list of ingredients and a summary of the proper procedure. Read the directions very, very carefully. This is a volatile mixture. Last year, _two_ separate groups ended up in Madam Pomfrey's care due to their negligence. And I'm not going to be taking any questions, either, so if you muddy it up, you'll just have to work your own way out of it." He looked over the students as if he very much doubted that any one of them was actually capable of doing this. Even so, he sent them about their business, dismissing them with a bored wave of his hand. "You may begin."

Everyone began to speak simultaneously.

"Quietly!" Snape barked, and the room went still. The professor held an aggravated hand to his eyes. "You may begin _quietly_."

Hermione silently busied herself with taking out the proper tools, despite the fact that Zabini already had the necessities neatly laid out on the table.

"Be a doll and read the ingredients, won't you, Potter?" she heard Pansy ask loudly from a few seats away.

Harry rifled through his bag. "I can't," he gritted out finally. "It seems I've forgotten my book." And then his gaze narrowed with deadly accusation on his partner. "I guess I've had my mind on other things."

"Surprise, surprise," Pansy observed dryly, but she didn't seem _surprised_ at all. No, that tone in her voice was smug and utterly knowing. Harry could tell she knew _exactly_what he was talking about, why he'd been so distracted—could tell she was enjoying the hell out of it, as if she also knew something he didn't. She put on a mock-pout, playing poorly at innocence. "This does present a bit of a problem," she fretted after a moment, "because, you see, I didn't bring my textbook either."

"Surprise, surprise," Harry bit off dully, turning her words back on her.

Pansy sniffed, and glanced with superiority to the pair working silently on her right. "They only need one book," she decided imperially. "Tell your mudblood we want to use hers."

Harry's gaze slitted. "Call her mudblood again, Parkinson," he dared her deadly.

The Slytherin Princess only smiled, twisting a dark strand of hair teasingly around her finger.

He kept his jaw tight. He would have rather eaten dirt than resort to doing as she bade him, but really he saw no way around it. They needed a textbook and fast, or Snape would surely issue him a detention. And he didn't have precious time to waste on clapping erasers, not now when Hermione's condition seemed more precarious than ever.

Leaning over the table, he tried to catch her attention, looking from around the two Slytherin students between them. "Hermione," he whispered loudly. He knew his voice carried, but she didn't answer him, didn't even look his way. Her eyes stayed fastened to the front of the classroom, as if held there by some supernatural force. "Hermione," he tried again, this time with a frown.

"Here." Without looking, Blaise blandly passed his own textbook to the left.

It was in Pansy's hands before she could refuse it. Leave it to Blaise to interfere with her fun.

She smiled over teeth tightly gritted together. "You're _such_ a dear."

The forced, false flattery had him glancing wryly to the side. "I'll remind you that you said so," he said with a sardonic smile.

Pansy didn't answer, but instead chose to aloofly leaf through the heavy textbook in her grasp. "We need a cauldron," she told her partner when she'd reached the proper page.

Harry crossed his arms rebelliously. "Brilliant. Go get it."

Pansy only shook her head with exaggerated innocence. "I have weak knees, Potter," she informed him with a helpless shrug. "My private physician says I'm not supposed to be doing any heavy lifting."

"Well your private physician would be the first to tell you that our humble school cauldrons aren't considered even remotely heavy," Harry replied gravely, matching her exaggerated tone with one of his own.

She sent him a narrowed look that would have had any Slytherin student scurrying off, but the Boy-Who-Lived was up for the challenge. And it appeared this time he wasn't going to budge.

"Go on," he prompted expectantly—superiorly—needing some small vengeance, needing to turn the tables back on her.

Pansy clamped down hard on the temptation to shove her seat back and stomp away. But instead of playing the temperamental child, she skillfully kept herself amused and indifferent. "Anything for you," she told him silkily, gracefully rising and following after Zabini, who had gotten up to retrieve the necessities for _his_ partner without an argument or even a word.

Harry only let his eyes follow them for a moment before they shifted back to Hermione, becoming troubled. She was still as a statue in her seat, her eyes absent, as if they were made of glass or stone. He glanced around, making sure their two partners were still busy, then scooted over Parkinson's empty chair and into Zabini's. He placed a tender hand to the center of her back. rubbed. "You okay, Mione?" he asked her seriously.

A quiet voice and a light, comforting hand between her shoulders brought Hermione back from that faraway place, that place she tended to drift to when there was something she needed to escape. Slowly, she let her eyes turn to him, knowing that Pansy was gone and it was temporarily safe to look. "I'm okay," she assured him calmly.

Harry searched her face, her calm, tired eyes. "You sure? You're not lightheaded? Nothing hurts from earlier?"

Yes. Her head, her heart… _everything_seemed to be hurting. But all she could do was shake her head. "I'm okay."

Zabini returned, balancing a cauldron and various-sized jars in his grasp with a kind of masculine grace that completely evaded most men. It reminded her of Draco, who possessed that same elusive quality—that smoothness that stayed even when he himself got rough, that refinement that remained even when he was ill-mannered or bad-tempered. There was an effortless elegance to everything he did—the way he moved, the way he sliced through the sky on his broomstick, the way he smoked a cigar, held a woman, pointed his wand. It was the way he made it all look so natural, so simple, that commanded attention—demanded obedience, respect.

"My seat, Potter?" the dark-skinned man prompted mildly.

Harry's gaze sliced up from Hermione, narrowing automatically on the other man. He too was instantly reminded of the Slytherin Prince's wry manner—though it was more of an _attitude_ than a manner with Malfoy, far more sardonic and far more severe. "My apologies," he bit off, forcing a smile, but he couldn't keep the sarcasm or the bitterness out of it. Zabini was guarding Malfoy's secrets, Harry had no doubt, keeping the bastard out of trouble the same way he always had.

Blaise didn't react to the pugnacious tone, just smiled blandly and went about making sure he'd retrieved everything he needed. "Forgot a few things," he observed casually.

Hermione was popping up out of her seat before he could even attempt to. "I'll get them." Of course, both of the boys she left behind knew that Pansy's reapproaching form—the blinding flash of her latest fashion accessory—was the real reason the fragile girl had suddenly fled. And as she hurried off, Harry was puzzled to see Zabini's dry smile fading as he watched her, paling into something far more solemn. Something that looked strangely like… pity. Regret.

Harry didn't dissect this, didn't have time to. He wanted to set some ground rules with Parkinson before Hermione returned.

The Slytherin Princess had put everything down on the table, not unceremoniously, but not quite carefully either. She didn't bother to arrange any of it, or even to right the jars that had tipped on their sides, but instead lowered regally back to her seat and studied her nails with practiced indifference.

Aggravated, Harry quickly began to organize for the both of them. "Watch what you say around Hermione," he bit off quietly, not looking at her but at the ingredients he was assembling into a neat row beside the cauldron. "No rambling on about this or that."

Pansy's gaze shifted to him with interest. "This or that? Whatever do you mean, Potter?" A dull look slanted her way. "Oh… You mean _this_?" She held up her left hand. "Or _that_…" She wiggled her fingers smugly so that the jewels sizzled like fire, dazzling even through the dusty schoolroom air.

Harry assessed the ring with a clenched jaw. The glare of black and white diamonds was nearly blinding as it glittered from its halo around an enormous sparkling emerald. The gems rested on a gleaming band that he had no doubt was solid gold. The ridiculous thing looked as heavy as a brick, but Parkinson's hand was remarkably steady, as if she'd been preparing for the weight her entire life.

He brought his dead eyes back to hers. "Like I said—leave it alone," he commanded quietly.

But Pansy was having far too much fun to do that. "Why? Could it be that our little Hermione is broken up about the engagement?" she cooed innocently. "Upset that she wasn't invited to the wedding?" She smiled when Harry's gaze sharpened like an eagle's. "An oversight, I'm sure. There's still time to add her to the guest list."

"So you _admit_ that there's an engagement."

"Why shouldn't I?" Pansy returned, amused. "I'm anything but ashamed."

Harry felt his lip curl. "Because if there's an engagement, that means there was a proposal. And if there was a proposal that means you know where Malfoy is." He shook his head, his gaze like fire on ice. "Harboring a fugitive is against the law, Pansy."

The Slytherin Princess merely laughed fondly under her breath. "You make me sound positively dangerous." Her smile evened out, and she shook her head. "I hate to disappoint you, Potter, but my father has already let them search our estate. They didn't find anything."

"Maybe that ring on your finger will inspire them to take a second look." Harry was speaking through his teeth, his voice quiet, harsh, and simmering. "I could have the Aurors here in a second-"

"What Aurors?" Pansy cut in sweetly. "The last time I checked, the newspapers were saying there are hardly any left."

Harry's eyes darkened dangerously and his hands balled into fists, so tight that his short fingernails dug painfully into his palms. "Speaking of things that are hardly left—_my__patience_," he spat. He looked over to find Hermione nearing once again. His gaze sliced back to Pansy, threatening, aware. His voice was low and clipped now when he spoke. "I mean it, Parkinson. Just keep your mouth shut when she's around. So much as mention your _fiancé__'__s_ name and you'll be sorry."

"There will be no name-mentioning of any kind," Pansy replied gravely. "I swear it."

Harry didn't like that tone in her voice, but didn't have time to threaten her further because Hermione was making her way back to her seat.

Knowing that she was close enough to hear or even sense that something was amiss, he sought to be casual, sought to pretend for her sake. He stood, clapped his hands together. "So—" he addressed his partner conversationally, without all the ice and menace of moments before. "Who's doing what?"

Pansy walked her index and middle fingers across the surface of the table until they reached the large wooden spoon that rested nearby; she took the thing up with a cat-like smile and, rising, held it protectively against her chest.

"Shocker," Harry observed dully. "The Slytherin Princess wants to spin a spoon around while the mere peasants do the real work."

"Wouldn't want to break a nail," Pansy agreed simply, and Harry made a sound of disgust.

As with the couple standing beside them, he silently began to work… carefully pouring in the melted red clay, emptying in the half-cup of orange butterfly-weed petals, sprinkling the twenty-seven poppy seeds over that, making sure to pick ones that weren't too big and weren't too small. One by one, he piled the ingredients in, only daring to look up from his task once or twice to glance subtly down the table at his quiet friend. Though his eyes lingered for only the barest of moments, they were keenly aware of her stiff posture, of the way her hands shook slightly as she added ingredients to her own brew.

"Are you _quite_ finished?" Pansy's imperial voice cut in impatiently.

Harry's eyes snapped back to his partner, then immediately back into the potion. "I would be if you'd stop interrupting and let me concentrate," he bit off. "Bloody hell. Never in my life have I met someone so eager to stir."

A wily, secretive smile spread across Pansy's face. "If there's one thing you should know about me, Potter, it's that I _love_ to stir," she told him quietly. There was something else in her voice, something resembling a sort of dark anticipation.

Zabini must've heard it, too—had to have heard it. Harry couldn't think of any other reason why the Slytherin boy would step in on his behalf. "Stir up trouble, you mean," the dark-skinned man guessed blandly, and Harry was puzzled by his vaguely disapproving tone. The Slytherin Princess didn't answer, only flashed one of her superior smiles. "Behave yourself, Pansy," Blaise confused Harry by warning dryly. "This isn't the time for that."

As usual, Pansy wasn't the least bit discouraged. "I believe this is the perfect time," she countered lightly. "This is Potions, after all, Blaise. _Someone_ has to stir the pot."

Blaise watched her for another moment, his dark eyes dull, saying something Harry couldn't quite decode. And then, having said all he was willing to say on the matter, he turned back to silently aid his partner, who hadn't acknowledged the interaction, hadn't so much as glanced up.

Pansy seemed to take this as a sort of surrender, and sent a victorious smile Harry's way. "So it's decided then. Stirring there shall be."

She moved closer to the cauldron, ready to drop the scoop of the spoon into the mixture, but Harry grabbed the long handle, pausing it just before it could make it's full descent. His eyes meaningfully bored into Pansy's eyes, warning her that she was playing a very dangerous game. ""Like Snape said—what we have brewing here is volatile," he said quietly, but he was speaking about far more than just the potion. "Be very, _very_ careful, Parkinson. I wouldn't want anyone to get hurt." His lips tilted menacingly. "Including _you_."

Pansy wrenched the spoon from out of his grasp, her smile turning dark and crisp at the challenge. If he thought that threatening her was an effective tactic, she would show him just how thoroughly wrong he could be.

"Trust me, Potter, I'm not as fragile as all that," she told him, equally quiet, equally intense. Again, she moved to lower the spoon into the bubbling mixture—only this time she paused on her own, rather exaggeratedly. "Oh, I nearly forgot," she said theatrically. "Wouldn't want anything to happen to _this_." She made a show of pulling the heavy ring from around her finger and placing it rather strategically near Blaise, and therefore closer to Hermione's line of sight. "Heaven forbid it get dirty or drop into the potion. It's rather valuable, as you can tell."

There was no response from either student to her right, and the Slytherin Goddess was rather miffed to discover that she was being intentionally ignored.

Well that simply wouldn't do.

"Have you seen the new addition to my collection, Granger? I've been ever so keen to show it to you."

Pansy's manicured hand was suddenly thrust in Hermione's face, the dazzle of diamonds hitting her eyes like lightning, the strike so quick and cutting that the Head Girl was surprised when she felt no tears. She desperately longed to look away, but couldn't. There was a crack running straight through her heart where that lightning had struck, and she had the distinct feeling that even the slightest movement in any direction would succeed in shattering it completely.

The girls in the bathroom had been right. The ring _was_perfect—perfect for Pansy. Glittering black and white diamonds embraced an immense, finely cut emerald, all sitting atop what could only be gleaming solid gold. The piece looked like something from another century, like a crown jewel, an heirloom passed down from one queen to the next. It belonged on a Slytherin Princess, belonged on a blue-blooded finger…

_Beautiful…_

It definitely didn't belong on a girl like Hermione—a peasant, a mudblood. The Slytherin Prince, the Heir to Lord Voldemort's throne, did not belong with a girl like her.

And she knew she shouldn't want him to… but she did.

Hermione had once worn his diamond, his claim. But she'd been forced to surrender the necklace, the chain that had bound her to him. And he'd been forced to surrender _her_—back to the silence and the solitude of belonging nowhere, to no one… of having nothing but secrets and memories and visions of what, deep in her heart, she knew never could have been.

Now here in front of her was a new jewel, a new claim. But it wasn't for her. He belonged to someone else entirely.

And, oh God, how it hurt.

The ring was mocking her. The face of the emerald glittered with laughter in the daylight, hurting her eyes, hurting her heart. It was taunting her. _You__aren__'__t__his_, it seemed to say. _You__never__will__be.__You__never__were__…_

"What do you think?' came Pansy Parkinson's smug voice.

Hermione was still. "It's beautiful," she whispered at last.

The truth hurts… wasn't that what people said? It more than hurt in this case. It cut like a knife.

"Yes," Pansy agreed, considering the ring with a fond sort of sigh. And then her gaze snapped back up to watch the other girl through her lashes. "My fiancé has a knack for knowing which one to choose."

Harry's fists were clenched so tight that he was sure his short fingernails would pierce right through the palm of his hand. He was about to intervene—but he was beaten to the punch.

It was Zabini who grabbed the long arm that extended over his workspace and all but ripped the ring out of Pansy's hand. "You should put this someplace safe before something _happens__to__it_," he advised her quietly, and that cold, commanding tone had Harry's eyebrows furrowing with puzzlement. If he hadn't known any better, he would have thought the words were a threat…

Pansy snatched the ring back and began to smooth it back onto her finger.

But Blaise shocked everyone by physically stopping her, his large hand gripping hers, squeezing her fingers together in a vise grip. He looked at her meaningfully, uncompromisingly. "Pansy. Put it away. Now."

The Slytherin Princess wrenched her hand out of his, regarding him with an incredulous look. She had never seen this side of Blaise—had never known another side to him existed. Sure, he'd often disapproved of her antics—he'd never shied away from making _that_ perfectly clear. But he'd always done so with wry amusement and even mild affection. No matter how far she'd gone, he'd never done more than mock her dryly, fondly. He'd certainly never bothered to intervene. No one dared tell the Slytherin Princess what to do. That was Draco Malfoy's place, and no one else's—not even his closest comrade, the ever-watchful Blaise Zabini.

But this wasn't the faintly disapproving, always entertained Zabini any longer. This wasn't the wry advisor, but someone else entirely.

Someone Pansy had the distinct feeling she shouldn't try to test.

She quickly covered her dismay with one of her playful pouts. "Spoilsport," she accused lightly, and reached into her bag for the empty ring box, tucking the ring inside of it and then replacing it in the bag. "But I suppose you're right," she went on as she zipped the velvet container safely into a side pocket. "It's far too valuable to put at risk."

Blaise only looked on with bland amusement. "One man's trash is another woman's treasure."

Pansy's gaze whipped to his, skewering it with the blades of a hundred invisible daggers. She clenched her teeth together to keep from biting back. A response would have been more of a confirmation than a denial.

Hermione ignored the statement too, though it cut her to the core, as well. It should have comforted her, the insinuation that Draco didn't care about the ring, didn't care about the woman wearing it. It should have eased the pain, the fact that the beautiful gem was just that—a beautiful gem. It was merely a shiny rock, a sparkly bit of earth and nothing more. It meant nothing more to him than that. Pansy Parkinson meant nothing to him.

But it _didn__'__t_ ease the pain. There _was_ no comfort. An engagement ring was a promise—and whether he wanted to or not, it was a promise she knew he would have to keep.

Hermione didn't realize she'd stopped breathing until she felt dizziness deluge her brain and saw dots dance in her eyes. Her chin fell to her chest, and she let her eyes fall closed, taking in one deep, calming inhalation through her nose.

"Granger. Are you alright?" she heard Blaise ask quietly from her left.

Her lashes flickered. "I… yes."

"Are you sure?" Pansy chimed in, all false concern. "You look positively _ill_!"

Hermione swallowed at the sound of that smug voice—nodded—her eyes still closed, her head still down.

Harry instantly began to push past the other two students to her. "Hermione…" He caught her shoulders, steadying her just as she began to sway.

"Maybe I should go to the infirmary after all," she whispered, her voice faint as she sagged into him. She held a hand to her forehead. "I think I'm a little lightheaded."

Harry instantly wrapped a secure arm around her, supporting her firmly against his side. "Alright. I've got you." His other hand shot high into the air.

"I said I'm not taking questions, Potter," Snape reminded him crisply.

Harry's teeth ground together, as if patience could be mined from underneath his gums. "It's Hermione, sir. She needs the nurse."

That had Ron immediately snapping around.

Snape's dark eyes went from Harry to the Head Girl, examining her dull and tired eyes, seeing the wilted way she leaned into her friend. "Fine," he decided finally, nodding. "You may escort her to the Hospital Wing."

Harry nodded and immediately began to lead Hermione out from behind the long table. Ron stood, too, his gaze questioning, but Hermione held up a staying hand. "I'm fine," she promised.

The redhead's brows furrowed, but he nodded slowly. "I'll meet you up there after class."

Harry nodded, and with a firm arm around Hermione's waist, he slowly helped her out of the classroom. "You're shaking like a leaf," he observed worriedly once the door was closed behind them. He took her trembling hands and warmed them in his. "Do you need me to carry you?"

Hermione shook her head slowly. "I can manage. It's just…" Longing. Disappointment. "Exhaustion."

Harry's hands tensed around hers, halting her as she began to pull away. "No it's not," he countered quietly. "It's that damn ring, isn't it? It's Malfoy." He swallowed, his jaw clenching as she averted her gaze. He dropped her hands suddenly, looked away too, shook his head—then brought his gaze back with a deep sigh of resignation. "He didn't kidnap you, did he?" he asked her warily after a while.

Hermione swallowed into the tense silence. "No," she admitted finally. "He didn't."

"You went with him willingly. You wanted to."

She nodded slowly. "Yes. I did."

Harry shook his head again, this time the movement jerky, his eyes going to the gothic ceiling of the corridor as if they couldn't face what they were seeing in front of them. "He thrashed your father, Hermione," he reminded her when he could bear to look at her again. "He could have killed him." The words came out through tightly gritted teeth.

Hermione nodded numbly. "I know."

The solemn acceptance in her voice had Harry's eyes widening in disbelief. "He _could_ have killed _you_," he enunciated desperately, searching her face, trying to find some trace of the girl he used to know. "That didn't strike you as a possibility after what he did to your dad? For Christ's sake, he used the _Cruciatus_ on him, Mione! How could you ever go with him after that?"

Hermione said nothing, _could_say nothing—didn't dare tell him the awful truth. Her gaze stayed away from his—worn, wary.

_There's always more, isn't there… there's always more…_

"Bloody hell." Harry raked an aggravated hand through his hair. "This is my fault. I shouldn't have let that bastard near you." He shook his head, clenched his fists, his emerald eyes simmering. "I should have killed him the minute I figured out something was going on between you."

Hermione shook her head, quietly imploring him to believe her. "Harry, it's not what you think."

"Isn't it?" He looked at her sharply. "Can you honestly tell me he never touched you?" She looked away again, causing his hands to fist in his hair.

"It's not what you think," she said again, but her voice was faint now, passionless. Unconvincing.

Harry felt all the fury he'd kept cool in his blood begin to boil, felt it coarse through his heart, felt it begin to heat his cheeks. "_Why_ are you still _defending_ him?" he demanded, incredulous. "He slept with you and then abandoned you—to marry _Parkinson_, of all people! He almost murdered your father—he _beat_ you _senseless_. He all but _fed_ you to Voldemort, for fuck's sake!"

Hermione's eyes closed briefly against the harsh, heated words. "It's not what you think," she repeated. This time the words were nothing more than a whisper.

But that weak, worn voice didn't soften him as usual. He was too irate with it's outrageous intent. How dare she defend that twisted bastard after everything he'd put her through? How dare she forgive him after everything he'd done!

"Well why don't you tell me what it _is_ then, Hermione," he spat. "Because from where I'm sitting it looks like he seduced you and deceived you so that he could play you right into Voldemort's hands."

Hermione's eyes closed again. She shook her head faintly, almost imperceptibly—smiled a pale, wistful sort of smile.

Harry's anger dulled somewhat at that humorless smile—deflated into a wariness that they both seemed to share. He stepped to her again, took her by both her shoulders, made her look into his imploring emerald eyes. "I know you're hurting, Hermione," he told her quietly. "I know you believed him when he told you he cared for you—I know that you still want to believe him." He shook his head. "Ever since he saved your life things have been all muddled up." He bent a little when her eyes lowered, keeping them in line with his. "But surely now you can see that he had ulterior motives. He put on a grand act, so good that even I almost fell for it—I'm _still_ confused, that's how well he played the part." He swallowed regretfully, shrugged a little. "But look at everything that's happened, Mione. You're cursed and he's on the run. Filling in the blanks is pretty cut-and-dried."

But it wasn't…

And suddenly Hermione realized there was no way around it. She had to tell him, had to make him understand—had to, even though revealing the truth about what had happened meant revealing the truth about herself. About the bruises he was so stuck on, about the scars he didn't know she had.

About how she'd really gotten them.

She brought a hand to her forehead. The sudden chill that had fallen over her had made quick work, for the skin at her temple was cool to the touch. "Look…" She took a deep breath, knowing that once the words were out, once he heard them, it would change things forever. Knowing he'd never be able to look at her the same way again. "I… I know how it looks. But you don't understand. Draco—"

"_Draco_," he snarled with obvious contempt for her use of the word, "has weaved some sort of spell over you. He's manipulated you and _used_ you and you can't even see it because you're so bloody _blinded_ by _love_!" He was shaking her now, trying to make her see reason. She was supposed to be the certain and sensible one. Where had that rational, reliable Hermione gone?

"He betrayed you, Hermione," he tried to make her realize. "Why can't you see what's right in front of your face?"

She opened her mouth again to try to explain, but he cut her off, desperate and exasperated. "_He__doesn__'__t__love__you,__Hermione!_"

Her mouth shut instantly. He watched her close up like a flower that folded its petals in at night. It took all the fight and force out of his words, so that all that was left was resignation and regret. He sighed. "He never has and he never will."

He watched her eyes lower, watched them become dull and defeated again. Wanting to comfort, he took her cool, limp hands in his—sighed. "I'm not trying to be cruel," he explained quietly, pleadingly. "I just can't bear to see you get any more hurt than you already have. Please…" he begged her, "understand."

The winter wind whistled outside, and frost seemed to wisp through the spacious corridor, numbing her body and heart with ice. She knew the time for the truth had come and gone. Like every other missed opportunity, it had faded away as quickly as it had appeared, leaving nothing but the emptiness and the cold comfort of sameness. Nothing would ever change. Nothing could.

She swallowed—tried to smile for his benefit. The lift of lips came out lifeless and forced. "I understand," she assured him softly. She couldn't bear the sympathetic look on his face, and looked away. "Anyway, it doesn't matter," she added after a moment. "It's all over now. Whatever it was, it's finished."

Harry sighed and pulled her into a hug. "I _am _sorry, Mione," he said after a while.

She rested her cheek against his shoulder. "I know," she whispered. "So am I."

* * *

It was close to midnight. Draco was pacing the span of the guest bedchamber that had been so kindly put at his disposal. The suite was regal and larger than most of the guestrooms at Malfoy Manor; but then, the Malfoys had never been the kind to be over-concerned with the state of such quarters. They weren't accustomed to letting people in.

Wind was howling outside, clawing over the moors, making a sound so human that Draco could have sworn some banshee was wailing in the distance. He wondered briefly whose lost life she was mourning—thought bitterly that it might as well have been his.

He was sure there had been no particular purpose behind the Dark Lord's latest edict, except to twist in the knife. It was all just a game the bastard was playing to spite him, his way of asserting that he was, in fact, the one in control. That loyalty could be bought and sold.

And Draco had to play by the rules this time. If he didn't, there were no ifs, ands, or buts—Hermione would die.

Hermione…

Was she okay? He longed to see her, to go to her, to run his hands over her face, if only to be sure. This Curse of the Cruor Unum… it was his doing. If only he'd thought of some way to get her out that _damned_house, if only he hadn't brought her there to begin with…

If, if, _if__…_ But there was no use in dwelling on that now. It was too late to go back and make things right.

And what would that mean, anyway? If he _could_ go back, he'd have to go all the way to the beginning, back to that first moment, that look they'd shared through the compartment window on the Hogwarts Express. She'd been soaked through with rain; the only dry part of her had been her eyes, so distant, so empty and yet so full of secrets. Full of mysteries he couldn't help but long to solve. She'd looked at him, and for the first time in his life he'd been spellbound. For the first time, he'd wanted something he couldn't have.

If he had it to do all over again, he'd have turned away from those eyes, or maybe not even looked at all. It would still have meant a lifetime without her. But at least then she might have been safe. And he'd have been safe, too—safe in his alcohol and his apathy. He'd have remained what he'd always been, and never thought to want differently. After all, ignorance is bliss. You can't miss what you never had.

But he _had_ had her. For a brief and blazing moment she had been his. There was no blissful ignorance to cling to. He knew _exactly_ what he was missing,how empty his life was going to be.

God, he would rather sleep alone forever than beside a woman who wasn't Hermione. He would rather eat his own hand than smooth it over skin that wasn't hers. The thought that it was _Pansy__'__s_face he'd see when he looked across the dinner table every evening, _Pansy__'__s_voice that would first greet him in the morning when he woke up… _Pansy_, and not Hermione, that he'd find in his children's features, mixed with his…

_Pansy,_and not Hermione, who belonged to him… Whom he belonged to…

He felt his jaw work.

Draco didn't doubt that Pansy had made fast news of the engagement. She'd waited far too long for that damn ring to not flash it around and show it off. No, she'd probably already created a ridiculous scene with the thing, raising questions, starting rumors—and knowing her, she wouldn't deny any of them. Appropriateness and discretion were things women of her kind could do away with. She was too smug and too superior not to revel in her conquests.

He stopped to draw the velvet curtain away from the window, just enough for one silver eye to safely peer out at the starless landscape.

What had Hermione's reaction been to the ring around Pansy's finger? She had to have seen it by now—Pansy would have made sure of that. It made him restless, picturing the scenario in his mind—imagining Hermione's eyes as they absorbed the dark glimmer of diamonds. Had they filled with tears, he wondered? Had they narrowed or widened? Had they closed completely? He had the sinking feeling that they hadn't—that they'd been entranced instead, unable to look away. He was afraid that they'd grown distant, as he'd seen them do so many times before—was afraid she'd retreated to that faraway somewhere, that numb world she tended to drift to, that world it was so hard to bring her back from.

He prayed to God she hadn't gone there, because this time he couldn't bring her back. This was a game he'd have to play out to the finish. The engagement to Pansy was real, and it was binding. There would be no more opportunities for him and Hermione, no more reassurances to tide them over until the next brief interlude. Her safety was contingent on him staying faithful to the Dark Lord, and to Pansy—and it was contingent on him staying _away_from _her_. There was no going back. The time of halfway goodbyes was gone now.

Draco's jaw clenched and his hands fisted tight, itching to strike at something, anything to release the restless violence suppressed inside of him. As his fingers closed, he felt the cool metal around his finger. He looked down. The silver band was loose, and yet he felt it constricting around his skin like a shackle; it was light, and yet he felt it weighing him to the ground like a ball and chain. His eyes closing, he pictured its other half, that sinister blend of emeralds and diamonds made especially for the Princess of Darkness, the bride of the Heir.

And suddenly it was all too much to take.

He was slicing through the night in a matter of minutes, letting the familiar speed of a broom as it cut through the wind calm him, letting the crisp winter air filter through his constricted lungs. Though he steered decisively, he had no destination. He was all momentum with no direction, an arrow spearing the air, aiming for nothing but the sky.

He swore out loud when he found the turrets of Hogwarts Castle on the misty horizon. He hadn't meant to come, honestly he hadn't—for Christ's sake, he didn't even know the way! But then, why should he be surprised that he'd found his way here so unconsciously? He and Hermione were like magnets, opposites forever tugging toward each other, forever fighting against the supernatural urge to come together, to be one. It was that otherworldly force that had kept them coming back even when they'd known they shouldn't. It would always be there, he knew, that innate longing—that deep-seated desire always dragging him back to her.

He fought it this time, warred with himself the same way he had a hundred times before. And like every other time, he found himself without will, drawing closer to disaster. He found himself edging the broom closer and closer—closer still—until their stone balcony was under his feet.

Her thick curtain was drawn closed, and he thanked God for that much; if it had been even a little bit open, there would have been no way of resisting. Being this close was already torture. He could feel her presence on the other side, could feel it drawing him in. He _wouldn__'__t_ see her, he promised himself. He wouldn't so much as peek in on her sleeping form.

Instead of following his heart, his instincts, he crossed to his own door—opened it silently, carefully stepped inside. The Head Boy room was dark, hazy moonbeams the only source of light. The house-elves had been there, it seemed, for there was no trace of himself visible in the room now—none of his belongings on the shelves and table surfaces, none of his mess strewn about. It was like an empty hotel room, clean and waiting, the crisp, starched bed sheets made up over the mattress, the drawers and wardrobe doors all carefully closed. He wondered fleetingly if they'd removed his things from inside or left them…

His sharp gaze whipped around to the bedside table. Suddenly he needed to know.

Urgent strides brought him to the side of the bed. He stared at the drawer door for a moment, afraid of what he'd find—afraid that he'd find nothing. Afraid that nothing was left of him, of _them_—not even the torturous reminder of what could have been.

Slowly, silently, he drew the drawer open and reached inside. His fingers searched, found the necklace easily; it was the only object that rested inside, stashed away in the back. He pulled it out, his grey eyes staring blindly. So they hadn't disposed of everything, he thought, half bitter and half relieved. Hermione had been taken, but this much he'd been allowed to keep. This much—the memory of her—was all he had to hold on to.

He ground his teeth together, squeezed the pendant in his fist. _This_was the diamond that meant something. _This_, the one he'd had made for the girl with haunted honey eyes. The other jewel, the one Pansy wore, was nothing but duty carbonized, cut finely and worn to remind him what he was. What he had to be. It didn't signify _his_ intent, but the intent of his father, and his father's father, and the ruthless man whose name not even Draco could bear to say.

But this faceted cube of ice in his hand, with the snake woven tightly around it… _this_ was hisoath of loyalty and love.

Only, she had given it back.

_Why is it we don't have a choice…_

There was a sound through the silence, the careful click of a door closing, and his head snapped up, intensifying on the bathroom door. The warm glow of lamplight suddenly streamed against the carpet from underneath it. He could hear the quiet rush of water begin to fall from the faucet—knew instantly—unquestionably—that it was her on the other side.

Christ—she was so close, only a room away with nothing but a thin wall and a wooden door between them. And suddenly all that seemed to possess him was the urge to get past all those barriers, to tear them down—to tear down any obstacle, any person or thing that kept them apart. He wanted to see her, to feast on her with his desperate eyes, if only to assure himself that the bruises had faded. He wanted to fold her into his arms, to tell her everything would be okay—wanted to tell her, even though they both knew it wasn't true. He wanted to feel her lips against his, even if it was only for a whisper of a second. Even if it was only one last time…

But there could be no more whispers of a second. There could be no more intimate moments, brief kisses, hidden looks. The line in the sand had been drawn—he was on one side, she on the other. And for the first time in his life, it was a line he couldn't cross.

Slowly, hauntedly, he looked from the bathroom door to the balcony one, then back again. And then, nodding to himself, he shoved the necklace into his pocket. For the first time since that rainy day on the Hogwarts Express, he found the will to turn around and walk away.

But just as he was about to disappear into the howling night, the careful creak of an opening door cut across the air like thunder. He heard her voice then, as soft and pure as an angel's whisper…

As alluring and as dooming as a siren's song.

"Draco?"

* * *

It was Ron's turn to take the cot in Hermione's bedroom. Tired and grumbling about how late it was, he pulled the folded blanket from off her common room sofa, dragging it behind him as he drowsily made his way to his bed for the night.

The current of winter wind was violent as it whipped against the windows, whistling eerily as it skirted around the castle walls. That forlorn sound gave Hermione chills, and she hugged her knees to her chest as if somehow they would protect her from the lost spirits that might come in to shelter from the night. "Do you hear that?" she asked solemnly as a sluggish Ron entered. "It sounds like someone's out there…"

"It's just the wind," he dismissed, throwing the blanket onto his makeshift bed with the one that was already there. "It'll clear up by morning. It always does."

Hermione nodded. "It'll be cold tonight," she observed vaguely, staring at the curtain that was drawn across her window as if somehow she could see through it to the cool night sky.

Ron flashed a forced smile, disguising his grumpiness about that very fact. "I grabbed another blanket. And I wore extra-thick socks." He held out one large, wool-covered foot, wiggling it obligingly. His eyes narrowed speculatively when she only nodded again in that absent manner, wearing only the ghost of a smile.

He examined her for a long time. Her arms were wrapped around her bent legs, holding them tightly to her chest, her back curved so that her chin could rest indolently on her knees. Such an effective way of fending off the cold, he thought sarcastically. And just like her—to curl up, to close in like a sunflower in winter. God, she used to be so practical, so efficient. Seeing her now, it was like watching a shadow, a ghost of the vibrant, headstrong girl she used to be.

"You should get some sleep," he said after a while. "It's almost midnight." And then, shaking his head at himself: "We shouldn't be keeping you up this late."

"I don't mind."

His gaze went to her. "Yeah well I do," he said back, crossing his arms uncomfortably over his chest. "You passing out in the loo and almost passing out in class—" He cut off, feeling his jaw automatically tighten. "I mind very much," he summed up edgily. "The curse means we need to be a lot more careful now. We need to make sure you're taken care of." She was still staring at the curtain, staring through it, beyond it, and he knew she was only half-listening. "Hermione."

The impatient tone had her gaze shifting to his. Ron was tempted to lecture her—wondered when and how _she__'__d_ become the one who needed to be lectured. Instead, he grabbed the red _Manchester__United_ pullover that she'd left strewn over the back of a chair and tossed it to her. It landed half-on her, half on the bed. "Long sleeves tonight," he said when she sent him a puzzled look. His tone was easy, but she knew the matter was nonnegotiable.

Sighing, she stood and pulled the sweatshirt over her head, over her t-shirt. It was sizes too big, being a hand-me-down from Harry, the sleeves extending far over her wrists, the hem coming almost to her mid-thigh. She couldn't remember how it had made its way into her closet, but she'd been wearing the old thing for so many years now that everyone had accepted that it was basically hers.

She turned back to her friend, and began to ask if he was satisfied—when the sound of a door clicking shut seemed to reach her ears. She was instantly looking over her shoulder, her eyes frowning at the bathroom door where, across a few tiles, she knew Draco's room lay empty. She looked back at Ron. "Did you hear that?" she asked him.

One orange eyebrow went up. "Hear what?" he returned skeptically.

Hermione shook her head softly, listened to the howling night. "I… I could have sworn I heard a door closing."

Ron laughed a little, the sound exasperated and affectionate. "It's just the wind. It's rattling all the doors and windows." He smiled reassuringly. "Don't worry. You're safe."

Hermione nodded, but her gaze glanced again, lingering warily on the bathroom door.

"Now Miss Granger, I believe it's past your bedtime," Ron declared sternly, seeing her uneasiness, using humor to distract her. "You'd better get to sleep before I start taking points from your House. It isn't seemly for Head Girl to be breaking the rules."

Hermione smiled faintly, knowing that the moment called for it. But it only lasted for a moment. "I've got to take care of my hand." Both of their gazes fell to her injured palm, one full of emotion, the other wary, empty.

Ron swallowed, his own smile wavering. He averted his gaze. The wound was healing, but it was still a tough pill to swallow. "Need help?" he asked dutifully, knowing that the prescribed routine was somewhat of a hassle.

"I can manage."

She was a little surprised—and a lot relieved—when he didn't insist on the matter, but instead turned out the lights and climbed under the highly inadequate blankets that had been left on the cot. "Well alright. If you change your mind, just holler." And with that, he pulled the thin coverlets all the way over his head.

Hermione smiled a small, fond sort of smile. "Goodnight," she whispered softly to the already-snoring bulk of blankets. She turned, padding across the floor in the darkness, silently opening the bathroom door, only closing it again behind her once the glow of oil lamps soaked the room. With one brief and haunted glance at the closed door on the opposite side, she went to the sink and turned one silver knob. Hot water poured from the faucet, and she held her uninjured hand under it, only half feeling the liquid warm her cool skin.

A new tin of salve and a fresh bandage had been left in the medicine cabinet for her. With a sigh, she unwrapped the current dressing from around her palm, letting the long strip of material drop into the rubbish bin. Taking up the small container of ointment, she carefully unscrewed the lid, dipping her index finger in the floral-smelling stuff and tenderly spreading it over her stitched wound, first on one side of her hand and then on the other. Her eyes went to Draco's door again, moving of their own accord, but she quickly forced them back to the task in front of her. Unraveling the new bandage, she spent careful moments swathing her hand, making sure the white-gauze material was snug around it. When she was done, she held the uninjured one under the still-streaming water, washing away the balm that glistened on one fingertip. As she let the liquid fall over her fingers, she again found her gaze being dragged back to the side. It was as if Draco's door was attracting her, beckoning her to open it. It was like some cosmic pull that her eyes couldn't resist.

She had been hearing things again, dreaming him up in her mind, imagining the sound of his door closing the way she'd imagined his eyes watching her that day in Hogsmeade. He wouldn't—couldn't—come back here. It was far too dangerous. He needed to stay away from Hogwarts, away from the Aurors, away from Harry and Ron… and her.

Still she moved forward, stepping almost dazedly away from the still-running faucet, guided by some urge, some primal need to open the door. She hadn't been on the other side since the night of Halloween—the night he had stripped her of her clothes, of her inhibitions, her angel wings. She hadn't dared to cross back over this threshold since she'd left it—and the warm vial of blood—behind her.

Reaching out now, her fingers were unsteady. What would it feel like, to see the place so dark and empty? To look at the cold, unused bed that they had made love in and know definitively that he was gone?

She gripped the cool silver knob, silently turned it. The door creaked as it slowly opened, as if it had been centuries since someone had passed through. She stood still and silent in the doorway, not daring to step any further, taking in the empty space with wistful eyes. Moonlight was streaming in, casting shadows over the bed, the carpet, making shapes that seemed to drift in darkness across the room. She watched warily as one such shadow—solid and strangely human—reached the balcony door, ready to vanish into the night.

Her eyes focused then, frowned. Her breath stopped in her chest.

It wasn't a shadow. It was a man.

All of a sudden her heart was pounding like thunder. She only dared to take one hesitant, hopeful step. "Draco?"

Draco stopped cold. Suddenly he hated everything, everyone. Hated her for finding him, hated himself for letting her.

Hated himself—because he knew what he had to do.

_The time of halfway goodbyes was gone…_

There was no other option now. He had to keep her safe.

And he had to break her heart to do it.

He turned, and somehow she was already there lacing her arms around him, burying her face into his neck. "Draco," he heard her say again, and this time the sound of his name was a whispered sigh of relief.

He didn't react. He stayed as still and hard as a statue. His were arms stiff, fighting off the urge to band around her. His back was straight, tense with the need to stay unaffected. Christ, he should have turned his broom around the second he'd seen the stone towers in the distance. He should have remembered that when magnets got too close, they always drew together. They always ended up stuck no matter how hard one tried to hold them apart.

"I was so worried," Hermione was saying into his shoulder. She was holding onto him as if she was afraid he might disappear into darkness. "I knew when I woke up in the infirmary that something must have gone wrong. I didn't know where you were or if you were safe."

Draco remained silent, trying to find the willpower to hurt her. To save her.

"The Aurors have been so determined to find you." She nuzzled her face against his throat, needing to breathe in the cool winter scent of him. "When they told me about the curse I didn't know what to think."

The mention of the curse had his resolve hardening instantly. It motivated him, reminded him he _had_ to do this. He had to persevere. Her life depended on it—on him.

He felt his jaw clench. _Showtime_, he thought bitterly.

"Didn't you?" he replied leisurely. "I would have thought it speaks for itself."

Hermione frowned at the casual tone, at the strong arms that had yet to wrap around her. Slowly, silently, she held herself away. Her brown eyes came up, searching his stone-grey ones cautiously. There was nothing there, it seemed, but a vague look that seemed strangely like… indifference. "Like the ring on Pansy's finger?" she asked him quietly. "Does that speak for itself too?"

"Obviously."

Hermione looked down at the word, at the strangely cavalier tone. "Then you're engaged to her."

"Quite engaged to her, I'm afraid." He smiled wryly at the way her brows furrowed ever so slightly. "What can I say—I outran it for as long as I could. But she finally managed to rope me down." He shrugged a shoulder good-naturedly. "I'm not bitter, though. It had to happen sometime. I've had my way with so many chits—it was only a matter of time before one had her way with me." He crossed his arms lightly. "That's the name of the game—you win some, you lose some. The outcome is of little consequence—it's always forgotten by the time you find someone new to play with." He raised a brow then, tilted his head. "You're taking it far better than I expected."

Hermione was still. "Oh?"

"Very much so," he told her. "I'm impressed."

With some effort, Hermione swallowed. There was something cool in his tone, in his eyes, in his affect. Could this really be her Draco? The man in front of her was like a stranger. A stranger she remembered all too well.

"It wasn't a surprise," she whispered, brows furrowed uncertainly. "I've always known you were intended for her."

He rolled his steel eyes. "I'm not talking about the engagement, Granger. I'm _talking_ about the curse." He flashed her a wicked smile. "About my little charade."

The sound of her last name fell over her with a chill. "Charade," she repeated stonily, as if she wasn't quiet certain she understood.

The flippant smile Malfoy gave her cut her like a dagger. "I'm actually a little disappointed," he went on casually. "I thought you'd be devastated or ready to claw my eyes out—or at the very least _embarrassed_ that I'd played you for a fool. But here you are, calm and composed, as if nothing ever happened. What, our little fling didn't even matter enough for you to feel betrayed?"

"Fling. Betrayed." Hermione shook her head. She couldn't make sense of it. "What are you saying? That you knew about the curse?"

Draco held up both of his hands. "Guilty," he said with a grin. He forced himself to laugh as he watched her eyes fall closed against the words. "What did you think I wanted your blood for—shits and giggles?"

"I didn't think you wanted it at all." Her eyes opened slowly. "I thought that's why you wouldn't take it—why I had to give it you."

"Yes. You were such a willing victim," he remembered fondly. "Which worked out perfectly for me because I didn't want the blood on my hands. Metaphorically or literally," he added with cheek. He paused, tilting his head to consider her, examining her like a prince would a peasant. "I'll admit, I never predicted you'd make it so easy," he said after a moment. "I had you all built up—the fierce Hermione Granger, my greatest challenge." He gave a short little laugh, as if the idea was humorous now. "After our turbulent history, I thought you'd be different than the other girls. I thought you'd be impervious to me. I didn't know how was I going to break you down."

"How relieved you must have been to learn that you had your work cut out for you." There was no more frown on her lips, no more furrowed brows. She was unreadable.

The toneless words were so staggering that he almost faltered. It took every ounce of his will to keep the easy smile on his face. "It was convenient anyway," he forced himself to say. The ugly words left a bitter taste in his mouth.

Hermione met his gaze evenly. "That's me. Convenient."

Her calm and guardless gaze had sickness twisting in his stomach. Her abuse was no laughing matter to him, though she would never know that now. "Come on, Granger, don't be so hard on yourself," he said with an arrogant sort of charm. "I gobble girls like you up for breakfast every day. You never stood a chance."

She wasn't confused or uncertain anymore. She had always been quick on the uptake—and she could catch his drift. "No, I suppose I didn't," she agreed. She gave him a tired smile. "I guess you have one more name for your list of naïve, discarded playthings."

His eyes narrowed speculatively before he could stop them. "I'm glad you can see the humor in it."

Hermione smiled pleasantly. "I'm a good sport." She considered him, her eyes scanning his unreadable features for any trace of the man she loved—for any shadow or scrap of the person she remembered, the one she thought she knew. "It was quite the elaborate prank," she went on calmly, searching his eyes. "You even had to save my life to pull it off."

"It certainly made for an interesting twist," he told her, unable to keep the crispness out of his voice. He gave her a tight smile. "You wouldn't have been much use to us dead, now would you?"

"Not much," she agreed with a faded sort of smile. She swallowed slowly then. Her smile flickered. "And Christmas?" she asked him. "Was that just another interesting twist?"

Damn her and her questions! Why did she insist on hearing more? Wouldn't she spare herself even a little of this?

"Sort of," he forced himself to answer aloofly. "I was on orders to fetch you from your house—that much was planned. But I didn't know what I'd be… interrupting when I got there." He shrugged a shoulder before it could tense up at the vile memory, smiled before his jaw could clench. "The Dark Lord needed to be in your presence to cast the curse," he explained matter-of-factly. "So I drugged you and set you up in the dungeon. I figured you'd be less oppositional there."

Hermione watched him calmly, even as she felt a little piece of her heart break off. "You shouldn't have gone to the trouble," she said. "I never fight back anymore." She smiled a little when she saw his eyebrows furrow. "I'm convenient, remember?" she reminded him wistfully.

He said nothing. He couldn't manage a response, not a lie, not even the truth. In that moment, he couldn't manage breath to breathe.

"You could have filled the vial that night on the cliffs," she said quietly after a moment. "You didn't have to make me love you."

"Where would the fun have been in that?"

Another, larger piece of her heart ripped away, and she could feel cold blood leak down onto her ribs. "Right," she said with a nod. She swallowed, and knew she should turn around and walk away. But she didn't. She had to hear him say it all. She had to hear him say the truth. "So every look, every touch—"

"Was a lie," Draco snapped impatiently. He needed out of this room—he couldn't bear it any longer. She wanted to draw this torture out, but he wasn't going to let her—he couldn't stand it, even if she could. He would end it quickly now, rip her heart out of her chest like he would a band-aid from her skin. Kill her love with a swift and final executioner's swing. "Don't you get it yet, Granger? I was _lying_to you! Pretending," he spat harshly. "A man like me could never feel something for a bird like you." He smiled cynically then, almost bitterly. "A man like me could never feel anything," he told her seriously. "You see, what they say about me is true—I don't _have_ feelings. Everything is a game and nothing more. Even this." He shrugged an apathetic shoulder. "It was fun while it lasted." His grey eyes watched her warily. "But now I'm bored." His gaze shifted away then. He swallowed, praying to God that she had had enough. "So—are we done here, mudblood?"

The last piece of her heart tore away, leaving nothing at all.

And suddenly there was no pain. She felt nothing. She was numb.

"Yes, Draco," she whispered tiredly at last. "We're done."

Draco felt a lump in his throat. He could see that the light was gone. She had receded back into herself, back into that safe, faraway somewhere, and he fought the instinct to fall to his knees and beg for her forgiveness. He fought the need to grab her and beg her to come back. The girl before him now—she was the Hermione whose lifeless eyes he'd met on the train. She was the girl whose wilted smiles had led her off the balcony parapet and onto the cliffs.

She turned and began to walk away from him—he knew for the last time. "Hermione." He uttered the word before he could stop. She paused and slowly looked back over shoulder, waiting. He shook his head helplessly. "I told you not to expect anything different."

Hermione smiled that faded smile. "I told you not to expect anything at all." And then the smile withered away. "I hope you listened better than I did."

And then she was gone. She didn't look back again.

Draco watched her go with a cold, still heart. His hands were shaking, and he shoved them into his pockets. His fingers brushed the cool diamond he'd had made especially for her, and felt it burn. Still, he kept a tight grip on it, needing something to hold on to, needing something of her.

There was silence, so acute that it cut into Draco's heart. The sound of running water echoed like a hurricane in his ears. He looked into the bathroom with tortured eyes.

She hadn't turned off the faucet.

* * *

Hermione closed the door behind her and stood stoically back against it. It had all been a lie—a scheme—a ruse. Like her skin, it had only been make-believe, a magic trick and nothing more. It hadn't been real. She was nothing to him.

She was nothing at all…

She didn't know how long she stood there, sightless, numb. It seemed like a hundred years later when she heard Ron's sleepy voice break through the silence.

"Hermione?" he asked, drowsily at first. She didn't answer, didn't so much as bat an eye. He sat up on the cot. "Hermione, you okay?" he asked, concernedly now.

Hermione swallowed. She met Ron's questioning gaze through the darkness with dull, emotionless eyes. And then she turned her gaze to her bed. Slowly, she crossed to it, climbing underneath the covers and closing her eyes.

She never said a word, but Ron knew the answer to his question.

* * *

Professor Dumbledore sat quietly behind his desk, a troubled hand held against his lips. Chills ran up and down his spine as he listened to the howl of the winter wind.

The children were in pain, but the hard times were far from over. There were still choices to be made—by the both of them.

The headmaster popped a lemon drop into his mouth, but for the first time he found he couldn't enjoy its sugary taste.

Because for the first time, he couldn't be sure what would happen, either. It was up to them now. It was their choice. And Fate's…


	19. Choices: Part I

_Saving You Summary—DMHG. Hermione Granger has a secret, one that's literally killing her: she has been suffering extreme abuse at the hands of her father. Who will come to her rescue? What if the only one who can is Draco Malfoy? Rated M for sexual content (including rape), suicide ideation, and violence._

_Disclaimer—Most of the characters and a lot of the setting belong to J.K. Rowling. The rest is mine._

A/N: Last updated Jul. 22, 2012

* * *

**:::Choices: Part I:::**

Winter raged on, frozen and forlorn. The days passed by, turning into weeks. The hours were long, and yet they knew time was running short… running out. The war was coming—the trio knew that, could see it on the horizon, could feel it in their bones.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione sat in the Gryffindor common room, silent amidst the gentle murmur of their housemates, each lost in their own grim thoughts. Harry had dreamt of the war every night for weeks, vivid, violent dreams that offered nothing new, nothing except a growing sense of dread. Each nightmare was a blur, colorful and chaotic, showing bits and pieces of an undefined picture, creating a puzzle with jagged pieces that wouldn't fit together.

The Slytherin biography he'd reluctantly bought for Hermione was in his lap, opened to one of the final pages. He was the one obsessed with it now, studying it relentlessly, trying to quell this feeling of helplessness that kept spreading wider and wider inside of him. He had all the names and types of strategies memorized, but he knew none if it meant a goddamned thing—as it was, without a full department of Aurors to defend them, the odds that their militia could defeat Voldemort's army were less than slim.

Harry's tired gaze moved to Hermione. Her eyes were dull, as if the life inside of her was slowly seeping into some dark abyss far from reach. It was like they were in some kind of time warp, like they were back to the days before Malfoy had found her on the cliffs beneath the balcony…

She hadn't told them what had changed, but somehow Harry knew she had seen Malfoy—and it was obvious that the bastard had been merciless. What else would reduce her to the ghost of a girl she'd been before he had saved her, before he'd made her believe he actually cared?

Now it was almost as if all that had never happened, almost as if she had never been happy or healthy at all. The boys tried to get her to eat, to smile, to laugh—but there was so little to laugh about now that they couldn't be convincing. Their worlds were falling apart piece by piece. The uncertainty of tomorrow loomed all around like a tornado threatening to breeze through and sweep everything they loved away in one destructive whirl of wind.

No new information had been found about the _Cruor Unum_, and Hermione had ceased to care. She hadn't really held out any hope on that score to begin with. It didn't matter anymore, anyway... didn't matter that she was cursed, that her life was at Voldemort's disposal, in his hands. It didn't matter that she might not live through the war—or that the curse might mean she would be the _only_ one to live through it.

None of it mattered anymore. Deep inside she wondered if it ever had.

The truly pathetic part was that she was still in love with Draco. She laughed at herself, an empty sound. She loved someone who didn't even exist—had never existed. It wasn't even a memory she loved, but a fantasy—a lie she had believed, a wish she had never really made and so had never really come true. Yet even as all hope had become lost, as the dream had ended and reality had sunken back in, that dying ember—that single flickering flame—was the only thing inside of her that still held some warmth or glow. It was a mockery, though, and she wished it gone. She wished—for the first time, _truly wished_—that all feeling would die and she could be completely cold.

She could feel her body slowly weakening with each passing day, but she didn't mind. There was nothing left for her… nothing left _of_ her, nothing but that single faded strand of love—and soon, she prayed, there wouldn't even be that. So it didn't matter. Her body could shut down completely for all she cared.

She was already as good as dead.

* * *

The air in Upton Parkinson's library was crisp with winter chill despite the fire that crackled wildly in the hearth. Draco stood stoic at one Georgian window, his hand drawing the curtain open just enough to gaze unseeingly out at the cold horizon. The landscape outside was bathed in white, the sky washed by hazed-over sun, the ground wet and thick with snow. It seemed so bright, so limitless—and so close—and yet compared to the dark study, with its curtains drawn in darkness and its candle flames flickering, it seemed to Draco like another world entirely.

Low, familiar voices murmured across the room behind him; the First Circle had been summoned for yet another meeting of the minds. They had spent these last weeks planning, preparing, until it seemed now that there were no more loose ends to tie up, no more factors to consider.

Draco stared blankly out at the place far in the distance, that long, almost invisible line where the sky met the snow. With the date of attack set in stone and fast approaching, thoughts of Hermione plagued him now more than ever. Underneath the hard stone facade, she was all that possessed him, all he thought and dreamt of—all he desired. He longed to go to her, to warn her… to protect her. But he couldn't. This was the only way he could protect her now—by breaking her heart and keeping far away.

Her reaction—that blank, distant look that had come into her eyes, the way she had silently walked out of the room, past the still-running faucet as if in some trance… it had terrified Draco. He had seen that look before, remembered it well. It was the look she'd worn that first day on the train, that haunted, far-off stare that had had him so captivated and so concerned. It was that look she'd had those first weeks of school—those weeks before he'd found her lying cold and broken on the rocks beneath their balcony.

His jaw clenched. A cool reserve had filled him. In a few days, the castle that had been his only true home would be in ruins, crumbled and conquered before his eyes. People would die before their time. People would die—and at his hand. Young children—first and second years, their potential wasted… and for what? To exact some meaningless vengeance for the Dark Lord? To get back at a single black-haired infant for unintentionally besting him years before? Wasn't that really what this was about? Trying to find power and peace for a man whose restless ambition would never be satisfied, not even if he got everything he wanted, not even if he won…

Draco had never killed a man. He had come close with Hermione's father—and would have murdered the bastard in cold blood without a single ounce of remorse. But could he channel that same emotion in this next confrontation? Could he direct it towards his fellow students—towards innocent _children_? The people he'd grown up with? Could he use his wand against the professors who had first taught him how to use one? He had never been a monster—he knew that now without a doubt. But in a few days, that would change. He had never been more certain. Once he had spilled innocent blood—taken innocent lives—there would be no coming back from it.

But he would be what he had to be, he thought with cold resolve. He would do what he had to do, so long as it kept Hermione safe.

Bitterness engulfed him. Funny how a black tattoo on the surface of his skin could penetrate all the way to his core. Funny how it could poison his heart and soul until those parts of him were dead. He had almost let himself believe that it didn't have to mean anything, that it was nothing but a scar, that he could live on despite it—that they could learn to accept it, as they had done with Hermione's. But there was one pivotal difference between her scars and his. Hers signified the past, one that was fading farther and farther away. His signified the future, a dark, dangerous future that he could never escape.

Draco's eyes stayed staring blindly out at the landscape. In his mind, he pictured the horizon from their stone balcony at Hogwarts. It was cold now. A blanket of snow covered the ground, he knew, and a thick layer of ice sat atop the waves of the lake. How symbolic, he thought, that their place was cold and frozen over now. There were so many memories—of beginnings, of endings. They lingered all around, but the brisk winter wind was sweeping them far away. It was as if those warm autumn days had been nothing but a dream, and this icy vista before him was the empty truth.

"Draco!" he heard Lucius snap suddenly, breaking him from his thoughts. He turned to face a dozen skeptical faces. "I've said your name three times now," his father said with careful patience. "Where is your head?"

"Thinking of his lady love," the Dark Lord answered for him, all amusement—and secret knowledge. He stood imperially before the hearth, his gaunt form haloed in red flames like some saint out of hell, his imposing shadow stretching dauntingly out before him. The flicker of flames played against his sallow skin, against the black lotus boutonniere on his lapel, the crystal of the snifter in his hand. "Isn't that right, Draco?" he prompted mildly, watching his Heir.

Draco met his laughing gaze dead on. "Yes, as a matter of fact."

No one dared react to the confession except for Lucius, who made a sound disgust at his son. Parkinson, however, couldn't help but smile jovially; he assumed, of course, that they were talking about Pansy. "Cheer up, boy," he said, coming forward and patting Draco's back sympathetically. "You'll see the little darling again soon."

"Yes, very soon indeed," Voldemort agreed, his pale lips tilting. His grin widened at the steady way the boy held his gaze in silence. "There's no need to worry over her," he reminded the younger man amusedly. "I'm sure under the circumstances she is being well looked after."

The words sounded innocent enough. Only Draco knew how provoking they truly were—whom they were really about.

The younger man's face stayed completely impassive, and only the Dark Lord knew of the danger that simmered beneath the stone façade. He gestured grandly to the empty seat that Draco had left some hours before. "Won't you come back and join us?" he asked, all exaggerated humility. "Your participation in this is paramount, after all." Draco made no move—couldn't manage it without snarling or sneering in the process. The Dark Lord's easy smile began to fade into impatience. "Or need I remind you that it isn't only your future on the line?" he asked caustically. "I trust you have not forgotten _why_ you are here." _Who_ you are here _for_… He gave his Heir a threateningly pleasant smile.

Draco struggled to suppress his murderous instincts deep down behind that mortared wall of stone. "I haven't forgotten," he assured the other man, his voice dark and dangerously low.

The Dark Lord smirked. "Good. See that you don't," he said good-naturedly. "Lives _are_ depending on it, after all." His smile only deepened at the cold stare of his successor. Only the two of them knew he was talking about one life in particular. Again, he gestured to the chair. "Now be a good boy and come play your part."

Draco was still for another long moment, watching the older man with hidden hatred. And then slowly he crossed back to the wingback chair, willingly reseating himself in the pit of venomous snakes.

* * *

A dark vision jolted Harry awake before the sun rose on Sunday morning. Soaked in sweat and breathing hard, he sat up.

Today was the day. Even if his dream hadn't foretold it, he would have known. It was all around him, like electricity crackling in the air—in the sunrise that was just starting to break through the night.

Resolve washed through him. He didn't know what would happen, but he was determined to face whatever came, unwavering, head held high and wand held strong.

He would rise to this occasion. He would fight for the parents that had been so callously stolen from him, the years that had been spent always having to look over his shoulder, always being afraid. He would fight for his friends, the only real family he had ever known.

His whole life had been leading up to this _one day_. Voldemort had started something all those years ago, and today Harry was going to see it through.

Even if it killed him.

With silent determination, he dressed himself. Voldemort had been waging a personal war against him since that fateful day all those years ago, the one he'd happened to survive—the one his parents hadn't. Really, this was no different than any other day, this battle no different than the ones that had come before.

No different, except that today it would end.

One way or the other.

* * *

With a twisted smile, Voldemort watched the sun rise through the morning fog.

Today was the day. He had waited for it with ever-straining patience—and now, at last, the time had come.

Anticipation washed through him. He knew what would happen. His plan was foolproof. It had taken years of preparation and patience, but everything was finally in order. He had fitted all the parts of his machine perfectly together, and now all that was left was to turn it on and watch it plow forward.

He would win this war. He would claim victory from behind his vanguard of Eaters, his tragically loyal followers—and there wasn't a single one of them that he wasn't willing to sacrifice for the cause.

His cause. His happiness…

He had spent a cold and calculating lifetime preparing for this _one day._ Tom Riddle had started something all those years ago—and today the man he had become was going to see it through. He would end the years of emptiness, would fill them with an eternity of tears—the tears of a cruel world that would soon learn he could be even crueler. He would fill them until they brimmed over for want of room! He would warm his cold heart with the blood of those who dared stand between him and satisfaction, would cure the hunger that clawed inside of him with complete and unadulterated victory. And after he finished Harry Potter, the last real threat to his all his agendas, there would be nothing and no one to stop him from making any conquest he chose.

With a calm smirk, he pulled his hood secure around his face. He could already smell the blood, could hear the sobs and screams of pain. It awakened a sort of excitement inside of him, knowing that after today, his name would be feared for centuries to come. Knowing that if this wretched thing called _death_ finally managed to catch up with him, he would always be remembered. He would always be great.

Today it would end.

And with that ending, a new era—a new legacy—would be born.

* * *

Draco hadn't slept. Wide-awake, he'd waited for the dawn.

Today was the day. It had been marked in his mind with a blood-red X—with the black and ominous image of a snake triumphantly slithering out of the mouth of a dead man's skull.

Bitterness washed through him. He knew what would happen. The strategies had all been relentlessly mapped out and rehearsed. The plans had been laid with sickening precision, and as the highest general of the dark army, Draco had no choice but to carry them through.

He would play this part. He would be the villain, the monster, the dark prince—the Heir. He would be what Voldemort needed him to be—what _Hermione_ needed him to be. And he would act the part until he became his character completely.

Lucius Malfoy had spent Draco's entire life preparing him for this _one day_. His father had started something all those years ago, and today Draco was going to see it through. He would fulfill his dark responsibility. He would be all they'd hoped for, all they'd expected. And he would finally do what they'd always doubted he could, what he'd never done before—follow orders. He would face whoever was on the other side of that line and kill the ones who weren't wise enough to turn and run…

And one day, he will have grown so used to the killing that one victim's face would blend with another's. They would become like the girls he'd bedded and left behind: meaningless. They will have ceased to matter. He will have ceased to care. This game of the Dark Lord's, it was no petty diversion. These weren't poker chips they were playing with, but real lives.

And win or lose, it meant nothing. No matter the outcome, Draco was damned.

Grimly, he paced the room. He hadn't wanted this day to come and yet he had been desperately impatient for it. Because the sooner it began, the sooner it would be done with.

Today it would end.

The only question that remained: Would Draco have so much as shred of humanity left when it was over?

* * *

Hermione awoke slowly from a shallow half-sleep.

Today was the day. The air around her seemed stiller and more silent than it had ever been before, and there was the distinct feeling that any moment, lightning would strike and the ground would tremble beneath her feet.

Relief washed through her. She didn't know what would happen—she only knew she was tired of waiting, of dreading whatever it was. She was tired of the skeptical, worrying gazes, the questions every other minute about how she felt. She was tired of telling everyone she would be all right. Tired of lying.

She would face the truth. They wanted to stow her away where no one could hurt her. They didn't understand that no one and nothing could hurt her now. They didn't understand she had already spent too long running and hiding. It was time now for all of them to face the inevitable. She would come out from behind these stone walls they'd put up to protect her—and these invisible ones she'd built to protect herself. Too much had happened—she couldn't stay hidden away any longer… No matter what came, she couldn't retreat. No matter who looked on, she wouldn't falter. She would force her friends, her brothers, to let her face this with them.

And she would force Draco Malfoy to face her one last time.

All the secrets and the suffering she'd had to endure had all been conditioning her for this _one day_. Her father had started something all those years ago, and today she was going to see it through.

The cot where Harry had slept was already empty despite the early hour, and Hermione knew immediately that she wasn't the only one who sensed what was on the horizon. Silently, she dressed, pulling her clothing on slowly—taking her wand and holding it in her carefully wrapped palm. Calm surrounded her, inhabited her. It was the calm before the storm.

_And suddenly she knew what she was meant to do..._

There was a chance she may not see tomorrow. It didn't matter, had never mattered to her really. But she swore to herself that it would matter to the others. She would make it matter—make herself matter.

Today it would end...

Only this time it wouldn't be meaningless.

* * *

Dumbledore sat suddenly upright in his bed, cold consciousness rousing him with the suddenness of a slap.

Today was the day.

Awareness washed through him. He didn't know what would happen. It was out of his hands now—always had been, really. There were still things to be done, choices to be made—but he knew even the right ones may not make the difference. In the end, they could only do their best—the rest was entirely up to the turns and whims of Fate.

Whatever would be would be. Whatever happened in this life was meant—he'd known that so certainly and for such a long time, and yet now he wondered if he was really so sure. Everything had its reason. Everything had its place, it's purpose... even pain. Even death. What, then, was this disconcerting doubt—this hesitance he'd never truly felt before this moment? He'd always believed in providence. He'd felt its guiding force, leading him always onwards. Now, however, he couldn't help but wonder if it was leading them into a darkness they would never be able to find their way out of.

But he would trust in Fate. He would steel himself for the injustices of destiny—would remember that they were as necessary as its glories. After all, in times of crisis, when faith is wont to falter, it is all the more important to keep it holding strong. He would keep believing that better things were to be born out of these ashes—for if faith was lost, then so was hope.

Destiny had been laid out in the stars centuries before now, and every footstep since had been tiptoeing towards this _one day_. Fate had started something all those years ago—and today it was finally going to see it through.

Dumbledore bustled into action. They needed to get the children out of here immediately. They needed to alert the Ministry, summon the Order. The army needed to assemble.

It was time. Today it would end.

And no matter how it ended, no matter who came claimed 'victory,' the silent knowledge that in war you always lost more than you gained—that no one could truly _win_—was ever present in his mind.

* * *

The evacuation of students from Hogwarts was executed for the most part with surprising smoothness. The children were awoken from their beds while the sun was still low and the sky was still mostly dark. They were urgently, but calmly—ever so calmly—led down the staircases en masse and piled into the black school carriages that waited in a long and winding line to carry them to safety. Ignorance was what made the difference—with yawns and drowsy eyes, and garbed only in school robes slung over their pajamas, they let their elders lead them out of their dormitories. There were not many questions, nor much resistance; they followed quietly and compliantly, as drowsy children are apt to do. No, only the oldest students had the presence of mind to wonder where they were being so hurriedly brought at so ungodly an hour—_why_ they were being brought anywhere at all. But even they did not yet comprehend or suspect that they may never be able to retrieve what the left behind—or see _whom_ they left behind—ever again.

The journey to Hogsmeade Station was charged with all the electricity and swiftness of a storm. The roar of hooves and the rumble of rolling wheels resounded like thunder in the stillness of the morning. The thestrals lunged onward, sprinting, slicing through the winter wind with the fierceness of lightning. Inside the carriages, many of the younger students were nodding off despite the ragged ride, still too naïve and oblivious to be overly concerned. The older ones, however, were becoming more and more aware—of what, they couldn't yet identify, except the icy sense of foreboding that was all around. Some whispered to each other, nervous, attempting to comfort, but mostly they were silent, watching worriedly out at the sunrise-soaked scenery as it hurried by.

They reached the station far faster than usual, and what followed was another organized stampede. The younger students were all loaded rather unceremoniously onto the Hogwarts Express, which for some reason was waiting there to take them to King's Cross Station despite it being the middle of the school year. This took precious time, as there were only so many doors to each car and almost the entire student body trying to cram into them at once—but finally it was accomplished. Only the sixth and seventh years remained on the platform, per the professors' instructions. They stood, about two hundred students, some solemn, some fidgeting, but all quietly waiting, dreading whatever that lingering feeling of foreboding preceded.

It was then that they became aware of Dumbledore's presence. He stood elevated somehow, though none but the people nearest him could know what exactly he stood on, or how it was his head and shoulders stuck out above the sea of students. He was solemn, too—perhaps solemner than they had ever seen him.

And suddenly they knew whatever was happening was far worse than anything they had been imagining.

He cleared his throat, and the sound seemed to echo, that's how eerily silent and still the place had become. "I am sure after the strange and abrupt manner in which this morning has developed, you all have certain questions and anxieties you would like addressed," he began. "I wanted to wait until the younger, less independent students were taken care of before I did or said anything that might be too overwhelming." Here he paused to take a deep and quiet breath. "By now most of you have perceived that we are in a state of emergency. I am sad to say that in this case, _emergency_ may be the gravest of understatements." At that, the students began to glance around at each other, sharing tense looks and shakes of their heads. "Before I go on, I must ask you to remain calm. What I am about to say will be extremely shocking and even more distressing, but reacting with panic will only serve to make it all the more so."

He paused, not wanting to continue—knowing that he must. He swallowed calmly. "The professors and I have become aware that an attack on our school is imminent." The students immediately broke out into a buzz of gasps and oh-my-gods. Dumbledore put up his hands. "Please—please," he tried to calm them. With some urging from the professors that were peppered throughout the crowd, all was quiet again. "I understand that this is a lot to take in. But we don't have much time to waste on comforting words. As it is, we barely have time for the truth… which is, I'm afraid, as far from comforting as words can be."

He paused again. "The people who intend to come here—they are the followers of a man the entire wizarding world has come to fear. I don't think I need to say his name and so I won't. But the threat he poses is very real, and it is very nearly upon us." A solemn moment passed. "_He_ is nearly upon us."

A nervous hum broke out again, and he raised his voice, speaking over it. "The Ministry and all other appropriate factions have been alerted, and support is arriving at the castle even now as I am speaking to you," he assured them. And then he shook his head gravely. "But I am afraid it appears that combat will be inevitable. And that lives will be lost."

All was quiet, but the crowd around him was jittering with tension. Dumbledore could see every silent fraction of fear. Hands instinctively grabbed for hands, reaching of their own accord for something strong and solid to hold on to. Anxious tears streamed down some of the girls' faces; others turned to hide against the stiff shoulders of the boys beside them. Jaws were clenched. Teeth were gnawing nervously on bottom lips. Goosebumps were crawling over skin, but it wasn't the winter cold that caused it. Shuddering breaths were drawing in and out, but the shivers weren't because of the snow.

The Headmaster cleared his throat. "This train is bound for King's Cross Station, where we have authorities waiting to convey all those aboard to safety. Parents and other guardians will be contacted upon arrival, and those who can be will be picked up and brought to their homes." He paused. "If you are not yet of the age sixteen, and if you have not passed the O.W.L. exams with at least an E in the core classes, I must _insist_ that you board the train immediately." The crowd bristled, and he held up his hands again to pacify them. "I understand that some of you may wish to stay—and that is courageous and admirable of you. However, I cannot stand by and allow my students to risk their lives, however honorable their intentions, when I do not honestly believe they possess the ability to properly defend themselves." He gestured towards the Hogwarts Express. "So if that applies to you, I ask you to please do as I say now and board the train."

They did, some relieved to obey, others reluctant. It seemed like another lifetime before all had managed to push their way onboard. The students that remained, of which there were only about sixty, waited patiently for the headmaster to go on.

Dumbledore looked out at his most promising students with solemn awareness, wondering to himself which ones of them would live and which ones would die. He forced himself to continue. "Those of you who still stand here have proven an adequate understanding of spells and sufficient skill with a wand," he told them. "Therefore you will not be prevented from returning to the castle with me and the other professors if you are determined to do so." His eyes roamed the crowd, meeting theirs grimly. "However, I must warn you quiet seriously that excelling in the classroom and excelling on the battlefield are two very different things, and that remaining here will mean that your life will be in the gravest of danger." His gaze was dark behind his half-moon glasses. "This will likely be your only opportunity to leave the Hogwarts environs. If you do not wish to stay, or if upon serious reflection you have even the smallest of doubts, I ask that you join your fellow classmates on the train." His eyes found Hermione's, held for only a moment. "There is no shame in walking away. In fact, I importune you to do so. This is quite seriously a matter of life and death." He took a long, deep breath in. Long moments passed. "The train will be departing in five minutes, as will the carriages," he told them. "Decide carefully where you want to be."

* * *

The dispersal that followed was slow and uncertain. Some people trickled away from the crowd and onto the train, some looking guiltily over their shoulders, others looking back longingly, as if wishing they had the courage to change their minds. Some drifted back to the carriages with grim resolve, others with decidedly less coolness and certainty. The majority, however, remained where they were, looking from one mode of transportation to the other as if lost in some tug-of-war between the two. As if stuck between a rock and a hard place—not wanting to stay and not wanting to go.

When Harry and Ron each hooked an arm through Hermione's, however, there was absolutely no uncertainty about where she was headed. It had already been decided that she would not remain at Hogwarts—not by her, of course, but by the likes of Harry and Dumbledore, and even the Minister of Magic himself. They couldn't be sure what Voldemort had in store for her, they had reasoned. She would be safer at Ministry Headquarters. She would be protected there.

Hermione had listened patiently. She hadn't argued. Against their united front, what would have been the point? There was no way that the combined force of those three important and daunting figures would ever bow down to her paltry will. As leaders of the battle, they had their plans and their priorities, and keeping her out of the fighting was at the top of the list. She had ceased to have a say the second the _Cruor Unum _had been cast—the second Voldemort had taken her hostage, the second he'd chosen _her_ to be his shield.

There was no use debating with them. Any action there was to take she would have to take completely on her own—despite their arrangements, against their commands. If they were going to go over her head, she would have to go behind their backs. Because she had plans and priorities of her own. She knew what she was meant to do.

They lingered in front of the Express, turning to look at her reluctantly, their searching eyes running over her unreadable face. "I'm sorry. I know this isn't what you want," Harry said after a while. "But it's for the best," he assured her quietly.

She said nothing. A ringlet blew lightly across her eyes. Carefully, he tucked it back behind her ear.

"Thanks for not making a fuss."

One corner of Hermione's lips tilted up tiredly. "That would have been kind of pointless, wouldn't it?"

Harry's mouth curved. "Kind of," he agreed. He pulled her into his arms, squeezing her fragile form tightly. For the first time in a long time, he felt her hold him just as close.

It was a more poignant goodbye than any words could be.

It was a long time before he let her go. When he did, Ron immediately took his place. "We'll see you soon," he promised, his face against her hair, his voice above her ear. "When this is all over-with."

"Soon," she agreed quietly, but she didn't confirm the rest.

He held her away, but didn't let her go completely. His ocean-blue eyes looked her over, as if wanting to say something else. But he had never been good with words—had been even worse with feelings. And so instead he wrapped her school robe more firmly around her long white nightgown, and without saying anything more, he reluctantly backed away.

Finally, it was Ginny's turn to throw her arms around Hermione—and she did so now without reserve. "I love you," she whispered, emotion making her voice quiver before she could manage to swallow it down.

The train's whistle sounded suddenly, breaking them apart. At the front, the bell signaling its imminent departure began to ring.

"Alright," Harry told her, swallowing. "Better get on now."

Hermione looked hesitantly between the others. They nodded encouragingly to her with feeble smiles.

Seeing no alternative, she nodded resignedly back to them. And then, slowly, she turned away.

The three watched silently as their friend drifted away from them—perhaps for the last time—climbing up the steep steps and disappearing onto the train. They watched that place even after she was gone.

The train's whistle sounded again. Bare tufts of smoke began to puff from the smokestack, rising a few feet before wisping into nothing.

"Well that's that, then," Ron stated solemnly.

Ginny sighed, nodded her head. "I never thought she'd go so willingly. I thought she'd be kicking and screaming the whole way."

Harry stared—haunted, dreading, almost unseeing—at the place where Hermione had disappeared. "I guess it's too much to ask that you follow her example."

Ginny turned to look at him, eyebrows furrowed. "What do you mean?" Her frown deepened when he turned to look at her, grim and determined. Awareness entered her. She was suddenly struck with the instinct to retreat. "Harry…" She addressed him soothingly, cautiously—like she would a wolf that looked as if it was about to pounce.

Her instincts proved to be not far off— because all of a sudden, he was grabbing her wrist and tugging her forward. "Ow—what are you doing?"

"I'm putting you on the train."

The words were as chilling as the resolve they were declared with, halting her in place. "What?" Realization hit her, and she ripped her hand out of his, immediately beginning to back away from him.

He stalked after her, his face dark, determined—dangerous. She had never seen him look like that, not at anyone but especially not at her. She had never been afraid of him. But suddenly she was.

"Harry—stop it." She held her hands up to ward him off. "Harry, stop!"

His hands kept reaching for hers, but she kept managing to evade him, her blue eyes staying on his all the time, trying to soothe him even while pleading with him, imploring him to let her be. But Harry didn't relent. He didn't even bother to look sorry! He wasn't going to compromise this time…

He wasn't going to compromise her life.

Patience out, he disregarded the pretense of gentleness and hauled her over his shoulder as if she were nothing but a sack of potatoes.

"How dare you! Let me down, you pig-headed bastard—!"

Apparently it _had _been too much to ask that she follow Hermione's example. She was kicking, screaming, clawing, cursing—fighting the inevitable with every fiber of her being. Her fingernails dug into his skin, then her palms, then her fists. Her legs flailed and squirmed, violently straining to reach the ground. Words were spewing from her lips that Harry had never heard her utter, calling him all sorts of vile names and screeching expletives until even the few stray students who remained on the platform were aware of the commotion and couldn't help but pause to watch the spectacle.

No, Ginny would never be the kind to go willingly. She would never make it easy… to say goodbye…

He ignored the hands that beat hopelessly on his back with the steel reserve of a hardened machine. He walked toward the locomotive, all firmness and purpose, all power, as if unaffected or unaware that his luggage struggled desperately to be free. "I'm putting you on this train if it's the last thing I do." He spoke the dark words under his breath, more to himself than to her.

She felt him carry her up the steep train steps, and squirmed with renewed determination, trying to push or pull or pry herself away—trying anything to free herself from the trap of his arms. "I mean it Harry—put me down!"

He did, suddenly and unceremoniously plopping her back onto her feet. Ginny's panic rose when the soles of her shoes met with the thin carpet of the train. She immediately turned and made a dash back for the exit, but he grabbed her back and held her still.

"You heard Dumbledore, Harry! Any sixth or seventh year with sufficient marks can stay." She shook her head angrily. "News flash—that includes me!"

Harry's voice was straightforward, unyielding. "Not today."

Getting nowhere and running out of time, Ginny's eyes flew pleadingly to her brother, who had followed after them onto the train. "You know my marks are higher than both of yours," she tried to reason with him. "I have just as much right to stay as either of you. I'm a Prefect, for Christ's sake!"

"All the more reason for you to be here with the children," Harry cut in impatiently before Ron could get a word out. "They need to be protected. And so does Hermione. What if the Death Eaters intercept the train?"

"You know that's not what they're after," Ginny returned with disgust. Her bright blue eyes seared through his, cutting straight past all his bullshit answers and excuses to the truth. "Don't you dare pretend this is about the children, Harry Potter. This isn't about them and it isn't about Hermione, either. This is about _you_ not wanting _me_ to be a part of this!"

Harry looked her straight in the eyes. "And what if it is?" he asked her quietly.

Ginny's brows furrowed, the words taking her by surprise. Her gaze searched his dark, unreadable one—but found them unrelenting. "Why are you always pushing me away?" she asked pleadingly. "I'm not the weak, incapable child you think I am, Harry. When will I finally prove to you that I'm strong enough? I'm good enough!"

Harry's eyes were suddenly haunted. "You've never not been good enough."

"Then why the bloody hell are you trying to ship me off on this damn train?" He only clenched his jaw, evoking a frustrated sound from her. "I can do this, Harry. I can help. They need me out there!"

He was suddenly grabbing her by the shoulders. "_I_ need you _here_!" he insisted, shaking her urgently in his grip. And then his eyes roamed desperately over her face, her soft features. His voice became quiet—vulnerable. "I need you safe."

Ginny's eyes softened at the uncharacteristic words, and a fond smile tugged at one corner of her lips. "I'll be fine," she soothed, bringing the palm of her hand up to cover his cheek reassuringly. "I'm a big girl, Harry. I can take care of myself."

Harry swallowed. "I know," he said at last. "But I can't take care of myself. Not if I know that your life is in danger." She opened her mouth to argue, but he shook his head. "I'd be distracted," he insisted. "I'd be focused on you the whole time—searching for _you_, worrying about _you_." His grip tightened painfully on her arms, as if even his hands were trying to make her understand. "All I'd be able to think about is _you_." He let his hands fall away, and they fisted at his sides. "And I can't let myself do that, Ginny. It would get me killed."

The slip of a smile was gone from her face, fallen with the weight of his words. He had always guarded himself carefully—what he truly thought, how he truly felt. He'd built an impenetrable wall and kept himself on the other side of it, where no one could reach him, where no one could hurt him. Where no one could be hurt _by _him. He had never dared to let Ginny see what was truly inside his heart. But in a few desperate and pleading words, he'd revealed more than he ever had before.

And all of a sudden she could see what was truly in his heart... was _her_.

She looked up at him comprehendingly. "Harry…?"

He shook his head. "If you care about me at all, then just this once—do what I say. Stay on the train," he commanded. "If not for your own sake, than for mine."

The vulnerability was gone again, locked up deftly behind that wall—she felt it like a sudden barrier of a thousand bricks. There was no getting past it, was there? Any new ground she gained with him was succinctly ripped out from under her. She would never get more than glimpses. He would forever be shutting her out.

Only this time, he was shutting her out forever. He was shutting her out—for the last time.

Weariness filled her. "But what if you die anyway, Harry?" she asked him sadly. "What good will keeping me away have done then?"

"You'll be alive," he said firmly. "That's all that matters."

The train's whistle sounded again, and this time they heard it all around them. It was the impatient neigh of a racehorse ready to sprint its cargo to the finish.

Ron shifted, looking up and down the empty train corridor nervously. "We have to get off, mate."

Harry nodded, but his eyes stayed glued on Ginny. He gripped her face between his hands, held it so that he could look directly into her eyes. His own gaze was dark, his fingers tense, his jaw tight. "Stay with Hermione. _Please._ I'm begging you." His hands tightened on either side of her face, urgently willing her to listen, to understand, to agree.

This _wasn't_ right. This _wasn't_ for the best—Ginny knew that certainly, unwaveringly. His harsh commands—and even his desperate pleas—would never succeed in convincing her otherwise. Her every instinct and desire screamed to fight him until she won…

But she saw now with miserable clarity that she never would. He would never let her. There was no way beyond that impenetrable wall. He would never give in.

And so, shoulders slumping with defeat, head hanging, she slowly nodded her consent.

Harry's eyes fell closed and his frantic grip slackened against her face, the desperate relief and crippling regret filling him simultaneously. The possibility of her staying had paralyzed him with fear—but the possibility of her leaving and never coming back—of never seeing her again—consumed him now with just as much heartache.

He swallowed it down until it was dead in his stomach. Opening his eyes, he hardened his heart against weakness. She _had _to go. And he had to let her.

He only let his hands hold her for another second. And then he nodded once—a jerk of the head that was fraught with tension—and without another word, pushed past her and off the train.

Cool air hit Ginny's face where his warm hands had been, but she wasn't given time to feel it burn; her brother dragged her into his arms for a brief and suffocating hug—then he too released her and began to back away. "We'll see you when this is finished. We will, Gin," he promised when she only watched him with wary eyes. He turned and was gone before she could call after him—before she could so much as say goodbye.

The train began to tremble beneath her feet. She stared down the now-empty corridor, feeling the aloneness like a physical ache. She had never truly felt abandoned before this moment. She had never felt like she had abandoned somebody else, somebody who needed her—somebody she loved.

And then it was all too much to take, too much to keep in, and she was running down the narrow corridor and onto the train steps. Her hands gripped the vertical pole on one side of the open doorway, keeping her body from vaulting off the train in its rush, letting the upper half of her hang partly outside. Her eyes searched the station hastily—a ways off, on the other side of the platform, she caught sight of Ron disappearing into the last of the school carriages, Harry waiting to follow just behind.

"Harry!" she called urgently, but he didn't hear her at first. The train jerked and began to slowly tug forward. "Harry!"

Harry heard her voice like a distant echo from behind him. He paused on the carriage step and looked back over his shoulder, his stormy eyes finding her urgent ones like a magnet.

"I can't live without you!" she called desperately to him. He said nothing, but his eyes were suddenly alert; they stayed fixed on hers as the train carried her forward—and away—on the tracks. "Do you hear me, Harry Potter—I _need_ you! So you bloody well better be here when I get back!"

Harry's jaw worked, but still he said nothing, did nothing—only turned, pulled himself up into the waiting carriage, and shut the door.

* * *

Ginny found Hermione near the front of the train, sharing a compartment with an uncharacteristic group of students. Gwen Carver, whose disappointing scores on the O.W.L. exams had made her ineligible to stay, was sitting with her on the same seat, staring out the window at the snowy scenery as it passed by; across from them, a fifth-year Ravenclaw boy was fiddling anxiously with a snagged thread in his robe; and next to him, a calm Slytherin sixth-year was casually examining his fingernails. Ginny seated herself between Hermione and Gwen, and the pretty blonde girl immediately laced their fingers together.

"Can you believe it?" the Ravenclaw boy asked them with nervous amazement. "It's bloody bonkers. Death Eaters—You-Know-Who storming the school."

"It's a nightmare," Gwen agreed quietly.

"Then someone please—wake me up."

Ginny's tone was dull—a strange departure from her always-vibrant voice—and Hermione looked at her with eyes that seemed to understand. For some reason, however, it made their Slytherin classmate smile. "Didn't expect to see the two of you on this thing," he observed with a cool smirk. "Couldn't hack it, eh?"

Ginny's eyes narrowed. "Excuse me?"

The Slytherin boy shrugged airily. "Well you're both of age, aren't you? And being the Head Girl and a Prefect, you can't rightly say you didn't make the cut because of low marks." Ginny's eyes went from ice to fire when she began to realize what he was about—but the flames didn't deter him in the least. In fact, he seemed to enjoy it—to be goaded on by it. "You're closer to Potter than anyone," he reminded them with relish. "You two of all people had the most reason to stay." He raised a knowing brow. "What—not so brave, after all?"

Ginny opened her mouth to lash back, but Gwen's hand tightened around hers warningly. This Slytherin idiot obviously had no idea what he was inviting. As far as Ginny was concerned, this train was as much a prison as a cell in Azkaban. Antagonizing her now was like baiting a caged animal. She was teetering on shaky ground—God only knew what would happen if she was pushed over the edge.

Gwen didn't want to find out. There would be enough carnage today.

"You heard Dumbledore," she defended her friends calmly. "None of us has done anything wrong. There's no shame in leaving."

But the Slytherin boy ignored her and kept his mocking eyes on Ginny. "Easy to play the heroes when there's nothing to stand up against, isn't it?" he taunted. "But it's a different story when danger's really knocking at your door."

"You think I _want _to be on this blasted train?" Ginny erupted. She let out a harsh breath—a bitter sort of laugh. "I was literally _flung_ over someone's shoulder and _dragged_ on." She looked him up and down, shook her head in disgust. "What's your excuse?"

His slick smile thinned, but before he could defend his own honor, the compartment door opened and a head poked inside. It belonged to one of the young professors who had been assigned the daunting task of chaperoning the now-panicked students on the train. "Everyone settling in alright here?"

Ginny's eyes glared across the little room at her Slytherin tormentor. "I wouldn't exactly call it settling in. But we'll manage."

The professor nodded once. He saw and heard the tension, but didn't waste the usual time trying to calm it or sort it out. There were other students in better need of his attention. These older ones would have to take care of themselves. Under the circumstances, it was all that could be expected. "Alright. I'll be a few compartments down with some of the younger students if you need anything." His head disappeared and the door began to shut.

"Professor."

The sound of Hermione's voice had him looking back in. "Hm?"

"Do you know if there's any kind of… utility closet onboard the train?" He gave her a strange look. "I… need a first-aid kit. To change my bandage," she explained.

The professor seemed to think. "Utility closet? Yes, I believe there is, near the back. Don't know if there's a first-aid kit in there, though. Just an old broom, a few feather dusters, things of that sort."

Hermione was keenly aware of Ginny's scrutinizing gaze on her profile. She cleared her throat quietly. "Thank you. I'll have a look." She stood and quickly followed him out of the room, not looking back—slipping away without giving her friend an opportunity to so much as send her a questioning glance.

She slowly made her way down the corridor to the back of the train. The professor had been right. There was, in fact, a closet—though it was more of a cupboard than anything, small and crammed full of cleaning supplies. There was an old, shabby broom with stained wood and broken bristles, spray bottles full of various colored solutions, feather dusters, an empty bucket, dirty rags piled in a disordered mound on a shelf. But as the professor had predicted, there was no first-aid kit.

But that didn't matter. That wasn't what she needed.

Glancing furtively down the empty train corridor, Hermione reached into the closet, carefully retrieving the old bent-up broomstick from its resting place in the corner. Pressing her wand against it, she whispered the words of the Flying Charm. No light or spark was seen, but a new energy immediately passed through the worn object, a sort of electricity that pulsated before fading away.

She considered the thing with a grim expression. It would fly, she knew. She had never struggled with that charm—or any other, for that matter. It was the next step that she had never been able to master. But there was somewhere she had to be—and she had to get there somehow. This horrid contraption would have to do.

There was an exit at the very end of the corridor, a door that opened onto that small outdoor standing space at the very back of the train. She crossed to it, beginning to reach for the handle, when a skeptical voice suddenly came from behind her.

"That doesn't look like a bandage to me," Ginny's calm voice observed, stopping her suddenly in her tracks. "In fact… it looks an awful lot like a broom." Hermione turned slowly. Ginny was considering her and the broomstick calmly, her arms crossed expectantly, her gaze direct. "There are only two things you would need that for," she stated quietly. "Please—_please_—tell me it's for sweeping."

Hermione shook her head. "I can't. It's not."

Ginny nodded, as if she'd already guessed. "Then it's for flying." Hermione didn't deny it, and Ginny was careful to remain calm. "Where exactly are you planning to go, Hermione?"

Hermione didn't break her gaze. "I'm going back."

Ginny wasn't surprised. She had guessed that, too. "No you're not."

"I am. I have to."

Cautiously, Ginny began to step forward, as if Hermione were a butterfly that might spook and fly away. "You have to stay on the train," she reminded her friend carefully. "There are people from the Ministry already waiting for you at the station. They're going to take care of you until this is over. It's all been arranged."

Hermione shook her head. "Not by me."

Ginny could feel the stone wall of her friend's resolve the same way she had felt Harry's only a short while before. She began to feel just as frightened by it—just as helpless against it. "I'm supposed to make sure you get there. I'm supposed to make sure you're safe!" Her voice was no longer calm, but strained and pleading.

"What about Ron?" Hermione asked her quietly. "What about your other brothers—your parents? You know they'll be headed to the castle, if they're not there already. What about making sure _they're_ safe?" Ginny looked away, the words chipping away at her conscience. Hermione's head tilted sadly. "What about Harry?"

Ginny's dull gaze snapped back to hers. "I'm here with you."

Hermione smiled solemnly. "That wasn't my choice. It wasn't yours either," she said. "It never is, not for either of us. You were right—they're the ones on the front lines. The two of us get stuck way in the back…"

"Watching and waiting for it all to be over." Ginny remembered the words, remembered saying them. Turned back on her, they cut to the core.

Hermione nodded. "They're the ones off at battle. And we're the women waiting for them to come home." She shook her head. "Only they won't come home, Ginny. Not this time. As long as Voldemort is alive, they can't win." Ginny opened her mouth. "They'll let themselves be killed," Hermione persisted before the other girl could get a word out. "For _me_. Because I'm connected to him. They won't fight him because they don't want to hurt me."

"You going back isn't going to help that!" Ginny exclaimed. "It's not going to do a _bloody_ thing, not unless you know how to lift the curse! And you don't, do you!" Something in Hermione's unreadable gaze suddenly had her faltering. Her brows furrowed slowly, speculatively. "Or… or do you?"

Hermione was calm. "I know what to do."

Ginny opened her mouth, but no words could form, and all that came was an uncomprehending breath. She shook her head. "How?" she finally managed to ask.

"I figured it out. I figured everything out."

"When?"

"This morning."

"What!" The word was sharp and incredulous. Ginny looked around consciously, before lowering her voice. "Why didn't you say anything before?"

"Because there was nothing Harry or Ron or anyone else could do to help me," Hermione said quietly. "This is something I have to do alone."

Ginny was quiet, and Hermione knew that she was considering—knew that she was sorely tempted. If there was even the smallest chance of her getting off of this _bloody_ train—any chance of helping and having it make a difference—Ginny's instincts would be to jump and never look back. But it wasn't just her own life she was responsible for now—like it or not, they'd trusted her to make sure Hermione stayed safe. She didn't have the luxury of not thinking twice.

Hermione knew how badly Ginny wanted to say _yes_—knew she was clutching for reasons to stay, not reasons to go. "I can end this, Ginny. I can save them." Her voice was confident—convincing. It was the devil on Ginny's shoulder, urging her to give in. "But I have to go back to do it." Hermione's gaze lowered briefly. "I have to see him face to face." _I have to see him one last time…_

Ginny didn't question who "he" was—assumed that it was Voldemort, that Hermione had to be physically near him to lift the curse. At a time like this, how could she possibly think of anything or anyone else? "There's no other way, then? You _need_ to be at the castle to lift the curse?" Hermione said nothing, only lifted her gaze to look patiently at her friend. Ginny shook her head—pressed her fingers into her eyes—knowing and hating the inevitable answer. "Fine," she relented at last. "But I'm coming with you."

"Ginny—"

"I promised Harry I'd stay with you."

Hermione gave her a knowing look. "I'm sure he meant on the train."

Ginny raised a sardonic brow. "You'll never make it on that thing without me, and we both know it. You're a terrible flier. It'll take you three times as long to get there." Hermione bit her lip, causing Ginny to roll her eyes. "Do you really want to waste time arguing with me? They need us _now_."

Hermione remained quiet for a long time. "You won't be safe there."

"I don't want to be safe!" Ginny insisted exasperatedly. "I never did." She shook her head and gave a breathless sort of laugh. "They can try to ship us off, but we belong there. We belong with them." She took Hermione's hand, squeezed it. "Like it or not, this is our fight, too." And then putting on a flippant smile, she held out her other hand for the broomstick. "Don't you worry about me. I'm an Amazon, remember?"

Hermione looked reluctant, but finally nodded. "You'll have to be," she said grimly, handing the thing to her. "We both will."

* * *

The Great Hall was more crowded than Harry had ever seen it, the giant room crammed so full of people that it was virtually impossible to move, or even to see past the few heads around him. The long House tables were either being sat at or sat _on_, until there was hardly an empty stretch of surface to be found. The aisles between tables and against the walls were all clogged, with people having to squeeze and push past each other to get by. It wasn't only Hogwarts students and faculty any longer; more had flooded in—Ministry people, Order people, volunteers—as if some silent alarm had been sounded, some emergency signal that called all able soldiers to action.

Strangely, for all that, it was quiet. It was as if every voice that spoke was soft and grim, so that all together, the noise was nothing more than a murmur.

Harry was leaning against the far end of Gryffindor Table, silent, grim, staring off at nothing, slowly drawing the zipper of his jacket up and down as he thought. The students who had chosen to come back had all changed out of their pajamas—everyone who stood around him now was dressed for a fight. Dean, Neville, and Ron were all huddled together nearby, talking quietly amongst themselves. Seamus was trying to make his way through the crowd to them—their old professor Remus Lupin following behind, counting heads, assessing their numbers as he went.

"Well. Take a good look around, boys," Seamus said as he reached them, his eyes roaming the hall with wistful humor. "It'll all be in pieces by the time this is through."

"If we even make it that far," Neville observed glumly.

Harry's gaze snapped around. "We'll have none of that," he ordered, looking between them with hard eyes. Neville looked contrite and nodded sullenly. The black-haired boy looked at them for another moment, nodded once, before turning to Lupin, who had come to stand beside him. "He's right about the castle," he said under his breath to his old professor. "Even with the Shield Charm, it won't be safe inside. The hospital wing—"

"Has been temporarily relocated," Lupin assured him quietly. "Pomfrey's set up camp in Hogsmede. Her runners will carry our wounded there." He tilted his head, examining the younger man. "Hermione?" he asked after a while.

"We convinced her to go." His green eyes were haunted as they stared into the crowd. "The Ministry will stash her somewhere. She'll be safe with them."

Lupin shook his head. "She'll never be safe, Harry. Not if she stays cursed. Where she is won't matter as long as You-Know-Who has her in his grips."

Harry said nothing. His attention was pulled to the other side of the hall, where the volume was suddenly escalating and shouting was breaking out. His gaze went to Ron, who had climbed onto the bench to see over the ocean of heads to the commotion. "What's the excitement?"

Ron watched as a mass of newcomers pushed their way into the room. "More volunteers."

Remus crossed his arms with a satisfied nod. "Good. We're going to need all the help we can get."

Ron nodded too, still watching the crowd. His eyes scanned over the men as they pushed their way through the throngs—and suddenly did a double take. "Dad?" His eyes widened at the unmistakable form of Arthur Wesley squeezing his way toward him. "Dad!" he called, waving. "Dad, over here!"

Arthur heard his son's voice over the chaos, and quickly found his gaze, which poked out above the rest.

When Ron was certain the older man had seen him, he jumped back to the ground, his head already shaking angrily. Harry came to stand beside him, sensing a storm.

Arthur finally managed to reach them. "Hello there, Harry," he greeted with a somber sort of smile. He nodded to Ron. "Son."

But Ron obviously wasn't happy to see him. "What in _bleeding_ _hell_ are you doing here?"

Arthur looked at him meaningfully. "This is where I'm supposed to be." He smiled ruefully at his son's red face and clenched fists. "Your mum and brothers are here too."

"Of course." Ron made a sound of disgust and walked away.

Arthur didn't stop him. Instead, he turned to Harry. "And, um… where is my lovely daughter?" he asked, looking around them, some of his uneasiness beginning to show.

Harry's gaze was dark. "On the train out of this hell."

Arthur's shoulders seemed to release. "Good lad." He nodded. "Good lad."

"If I could have your attention." Dumbledore's somber voice seemed to echo, interrupting every quiet conversation in the room. "Please. If I could have your attention for just a moment… I would like to say a few things before all this continues forward."

All eyes turned to the front of the hall, where the old professor had climbed onto the High Table and was standing now high above the rest of the room. The anxious buzz and quiet chatter slowly died down. Everyone was silent, waiting for the old man to speak, waiting to be comforted by his familiar wisdom.

Dumbledore took a long breath before beginning. "We don't have much time, so I cannot say all that I wish to say. Even if I could, I'm not sure I could muddle through with the proper words." He cleared his throat. "More than anything, I wanted to give all of you my deepest and sincerest gratitude. And tell you all that I am…" He trailed off, as if unable to find the words. "I am truly moved by this sight." His eyes roamed, taking in all that was before him. "I see before me so many faces. Some of you I have never met or even seen before—and yet there is not a person here that is not a true friend of mine now, and who does not have my… my appreciation and my respect."

He paused, took another long and troubled breath. The room was still, waiting for him to forge on.

He finally did, a troubled frown marring his brows. "I wish I could reassure you," he told them sadly. "I wish I could tell you that we will live. That we will win." He shook his head regretfully. "But I can't tell you that. Because I don't know." He swallowed, sighed, mustered up a wisp of a smile. "What I do know is that today is a day of choices." He looked out at them, meeting their eyes meaningfully. "Every one of you made the choice to be here today. You chose to stand up and fight when you could have chosen to be safe. You chose to risk your lives for what you believe is _right_." He nodded to himself, to them. "I admire that choice—I admire _you_ for making it. I think it means that there is hope."

His gaze found Harry's, lingered. "There _is_ hope," he said again, firmly now. "There is always hope." He let his eyes move on. "I think we all sense that we are about to face the end of something here." He paused, regarding them with a wistful sort of smile. "Not really the way we wanted to finish this particular story, is it?" he asked them. "But then… such is the way of things, I've found." He paused again, the sad little smile slowly faltering, fading away. He looked at them earnestly now—suddenly eager and serious. "Please believe…" He trailed off, shook his head. "Please _know certainly_, as I know, that there are more pages to be written." He met their gazes. "There will _always_ be more pages. There will be another story. No matter how long and dark a winter day may be, the sun will always come out again. And it will always melt the snow." His voice was calm, serious, certain. "When it does, we will pick up the pieces and begin again."

The crowd was still silent, but supportive hands were joining together. Meaningful glances were shared. Determined nods were being exchanged.

"As many of you are aware, I do not condone the use of magic to harm people. I do not believe that is why it was created or what it is meant for. But we must not hesitate to defend ourselves," he told them firmly. "We must not hesitate to defend what we know is _right_." He paused, swallowed again—then raised his chin. "I want you all to know that I admire each and every one of you for your unflinching courage. I am proud to stand beside you. I am honored to call you my friends."

He paused one last time, as if struggling with emotion. Something glittered in his eyes behind those half-moon glasses. For a moment, it seemed that it was a sheen of tears. "And please know that, whatever the outcome, your being here today will mean something." He nodded to them. "It _does _mean something. Remember that. _Believe_ it. As long as you do, this will all be worthwhile."

The room watched as he looked out at them for one last long moment—and then slowly climbed back down from the table and onto the ground to join them. No one clapped, but the determination and the power—the sense of moral duty, of righteousness—was burning in every man, woman, boy, and girl.

The hum of voices picked up where it left off, only quieter than before. Everyone sensed that it was time.

To face the music. To say goodbye…

Remus turned to Harry, held out his hand. "Be careful."

They shook hands, gripping firmly. "You too." They released grasps at the same moment, and the younger man watched Lupin turn to organize the group under his command. Harry looked to Ron. "You coming, mate?"

Ron nodded. He looked back reluctantly at his father.

Arthur pulled his son in for a strong hug. "I'll see you later, son," he said meaningfully.

Ron forced a smile and pulled away. "Yeah. See you later."

Together with Dumbledore, the boys strode from the Great Hall. It was time to finish this once and for all.

* * *

Outside, there was no wind. All was perfectly still—perfectly silent. The world all around was deceptively calm—the hard, uneven ground and its smooth blanket of snow; the streams of morning sun, warm and white. Harry and Dumbledore stood, watching the distant edge of the Forbidden Forest—their army waiting behind them, all quiet and still. The only perceptible movement came from the snow-covered clearing, where the Whomping Willow shook powder from its barren branches with a human-like shiver.

Harry's eyes narrowed, staring into the black spaces between the distant trees . "They're there," he said into the stillness. "I can feel them."

Dumbledore said nothing, only watched the woods.

"What do we do now?" He glanced restlessly at the headmaster. "Wait?"

Dumbledore's eyes stayed on the silent border of the forest. "No," he said at last. "We have waited long enough." Without another word, the old man began to step forward.

Harry frowned for one long moment. He felt the army becoming restless behind him—held up a staying hand, signaling all to hold their places. And then he started out after his mentor. Side-by-side and silent, the two made their way to the center of the clearing—halting when they were halfway to the edge of the woods. They waited there, looking beyond the trees as if somehow able to see what hid there in the shadows—as if fearlessly summoning whatever it was.

Long moments passed in perfect silence. And then, answering the silent summons, two dark forms drifted out of the shadows and into the sunlight. Slowly, superiorly, they began to cross the snow to meet them.

* * *

Disguised in shadow behind the edge of the forest, Draco watched with dark eyes as the opposing army assembled into position. They were too far away to tell one from the other—faceless, nameless except for that they were all called the enemy. He could see them over the silent, snow-covered clearing—the way they spread out so that their lines guarded the castle; the way they stood, so determined and grim. More and more were appearing, solemnly joining their brethren, but Draco knew that their numbers—and more significantly, their skills—were nothing to the army that was spread far back behind him, reaching endlessly into the woods.

The hooded figure beside him was watching, too, his regal arms crossed over his chest like a sultan, his red eyes bright with sardonic amusement. "Look at that, Draco. Fascinating, isn't it?" His voice was dark with rasp and awe. "They should be running for the hills. For their lives. Yet still they come." He shook his head. "They know they are doomed, and yet they do not flinch. They do not falter." He smiled to himself-—entertained to no end. "I have never seen a group of people so determined to die."

Draco watched them with an unreadable gaze. "There's nothing a person won't face," he said quietly—hauntedly. "There's nothing he won't do… if he has a good enough reason." He felt Voldemort slant a wry glance his way, but he did not take his eyes from the people who stood ready before the castle. His eyes narrowed as he examined them. "There are more than we expected."

"But not enough," the other man observed with simmering relish. "There is no hope for them now. They are merely lambs for the slaughter." He shook his head, considering them wryly. "I almost pity them, the fools. Their sacrifice is so noble." He smiled wickedly. "And so futile."

Draco's jaw clenched, but he didn't respond. His eyes were drawn to two figures as they broke away from the crowd. "I see movement." He squinted, making out the two familiar faces. His brows furrowed. "Potter and Dumbledore. Unarmed," he added speculatively. He glanced to the side. "They must want to parley."

Voldemort's smile widened. "Well then. We mustn't keep them waiting." He began to glide forward—paused when Draco didn't follow. He turned back, his smile staying in place but his eyes slicing. "Is something the matter?"

Draco looked out at the men that waited for them before bringing his stormy gaze to search the Dark Lord's. "Before I do this… I need to make sure we're perfectly clear. Hermione is safe. No one touches her. Not today, not ever again."

Voldemort watched him just as intently. "That was the bargain. I will guard her with my life." He took a step. "But that means you will have to guard mine with yours." He smiled coolly—victoriously. "You have to protect me to protect her."

Draco nodded. His gaze shifted again to the clearing. "And if I die in the process?" he asked quietly. "What happens to her then?"

Voldemort considered his Heir with assessing eyes. "She will be of no use to me if you are dead. Neither of you will be." He laughed ruefully when Draco's deadly gaze cut back to his. "I suppose there is really only one thing for it," he sighed. His smile simmered. "You will simply have to stay alive." The smile soured, however, as his gaze drifted back to Potter and Dumbledore. He glared at them with open malice. "They will be aiming to kill, Draco," he said quietly. "You would be a fool not do to the same." With one last skewering look, he turned and headed out of the wood—and Draco had no choice but to grit his teeth and follow after him.

They approached the two men, taking their time, coming to a halt when there was only a matter of feet left between them. The four men regarded each other for one long moment—one with grim determination, one with grave acceptance. One with triumphant amusement—and one with no expression at all.

"Quite the army you've managed to scrounge up, Harry." The Dark Lord smiled wryly. "Impressive."

"Sorry I can't say the same about yours," Harry spat.

Voldemort's smile twitched. "It is early yet," he replied quietly. "My Death Eaters may not make a distinctive _first_ impression—but believe me, they _leave_ a _lasting_ one." His bloodshot eyes drifted to the silent headmaster. "Dumbledore," he acknowledged. "You don't look well. Why, you're as pale as a ghost!" His head tilted with mock concern. "I hope it is not an omen of things to come." The false distress slowly twisted into a taunting smile.

Dumbledore's chin raised. "I suppose there is nothing I can say or offer that will induce you to spare these people and leave this place without bloodshed."

The Dark Lord looked droll. "I have already granted you one pardon. I believe that is more than generous—and, under the circumstances, more than you should expect."

Harry's eyes narrowed into murderous slits at the allusion to Hermione—felt an extra surge of hatred at the thought that he should consider the curse a _favor_. "_Generous?_" he growled. "You cursed her. She is a _hostage_!"

"She is _safe_," the Dark Lord corrected sharply. "Her life will be spared. Surely _that _is what is important." He looked his young nemesis over dryly. "You should be thanking me, Harry. It is a luxury I do not usually extend to her kind." He smiled at the menacing glint that appeared in the boy's emerald eyes, and his let gaze shift focus, languidly assessing the crowd. "I do not see her," he observed casually. "Where are you keeping her?"

Harry looked dangerous. "Far away from here."

"Good." The surprised frown that creased Harry's brows had Voldemort smiling dryly. "Did you think I would want her here, amidst all the flames and fireworks?" he asked mildly. "Accidents happen that way, Harry. People get burned. I plan to keep a safe distance, myself. I only came to preside over the opening ceremonies."

"Of course," Harry retorted. "It must be nice having someone fight your battles for you." For the first time, he let his gaze shift to the silent man at Voldemort's side. "Though I would never leave such a thing in _Malfoy's_ slippery hands," he added spitefully. "He has no loyalties, not to anyone but himself."

Draco said nothing, only continued to watch Harry, his face not giving anything away.

"You have no idea just how wrong you are, Harry," the Dark Lord told him. "Draco can be _fiercely_ loyal. It merely takes the right person to bring that side of him out." His gaze shifted over Harry's shoulder again—instantly sharpened. "Speaking of which—what exactly do you mean by far away from here?"

Harry frowned. "What?"

Voldemort's gaze snapped back to his. "The _girl_," he clarified with forced patience. "You said you stashed her far away from here. I was merely wondering how far away you consider _far away_ to be. A hundred miles?" He looked pointedly over Harry's shoulder. "A hundred _feet_?"

Harry's brows furrowed. Slowly, he turned. At first, he wasn't sure what he was seeing. "What the—?" And then his emerald eyes suddenly went wide.

Because there before him was the terrifying image of Hermione Granger, clad in her cotton nightgown, slowly and purposefully making her way into the clearing.

Draco saw her and instantly felt his heart drop into his stomach with horror—felt it stop, then hammer violently as terror began to seize his soul. Suddenly he could hear nothing, nothing but his own vicious heartbeat. Suddenly he could see nothing but her fragile form walking towards him in the snow. Inwardly, he was wild—screaming—cursing—pleading—praying—but his exterior gave nothing away, only watched her approach with impassive eyes. How he kept his face expressionless was beyond even him—but he did it now, knowing that her life depended on him playing his part.

Harry was stunned by the nightmare that approached him—the nightmare that was his friend, defenseless and determined, marching forth to join him in hell.

In some back part of his mind he was aware of the commotion she left behind her—the shocked gasps, the horrified looks—Ron frantically calling to her to come back. It shook him from his stupor. He desperately began to wave her away. "Hermione, stop! Hermione!" And then his brows furrowed speculatively. "Hermione?" His gaze narrowed on her skin, on something he couldn't quite make out. He shook his head. "What…" His eyes widened as she came closer, bringing the state of her body into focus.

White scars slashed across almost every inch of visible flesh—her arms, her collarbones, her throat, the backs of her hands, one delicate cheekbone. "Hermione…" Suddenly, realization cut through him like a razor—scarring his consciousness like it had her body. "Dear God." His eyes briefly fell closed.

Hermione didn't answer, didn't look at Harry as she came to stand beside him. Still, she could feel his confusion, his heartache at seeing her scars—seeing the _truth_—for the very first time. Surprisingly, she felt only a twinge of regret—and that was for him, for the pain she knew she caused him. The rest of her was silent, completely serene, as if somehow revealing the truth had released her from her curse. Not the _Cruor Unum_, but her own personal curse, the one that had been keeping her prisoner all this time. She'd lifted the spell, and somehow she'd lifted the burdens with it. She felt she could do anything now. She felt that she was _free_.

_And she was clean. She could start tomorrow clean…_

The Dark Lord regarded her as if she was some otherworldly being—as if she was some interesting puzzle he couldn't quite figure out. Slowly, he ran a hand inside one heavy sleeve—felt the raised and jagged ridges that had been hiding there against his palm. "Well, well, well. This is an unexpected development." His gaze sliced to his Heir. "Or is it?" he asked crisply.

Draco's jaw clenched. His shadowed eyes stayed transfixed on Hermione.

"Ah. I see that not all of us have been left out of the loop. You forgot to mention this minor detail, Draco," his master scolded blandly. And then looked back to Hermione. "No matter. It is of little consequence now." He tilted his head, examining her interestedly from behind the shadow of his hood. "Tisk tisk, girl," he admonished wickedly. "You should not have come here. For once, I believe all of us here are in agreement—your life is far too important to risk."

Hermione smiled wanly. "Don't worry. I don't intend on staying long."

The Dark Lord tilted his head. "Then what are you after, girl? Why did you come?"

"The same reason you did. I couldn't stay away." Her eyes shifted to Draco. "There are some things a person has to see for herself." She nodded to him. "Draco."

His eyes were dark as they watched her. "You shouldn't be here."

That pale, familiar smile tilted tiredly. "I know. This wasn't part of your plan, was it? I was supposed to be far away from here. For your master's sake." She searched his stone gaze with her soft, serene one. "Not to worry. I'll be gone again soon."

Draco's eyes narrowed, suddenly alert. "What the hell do you mean by that." A bad feeling seized him when her only answer was that solemn smile.

She took a slow step forward, another step—another—until she was standing before him, her weary, wistful eyes looking up from under his.

Draco was tense as he watched her slowly close the distance between them, his granite gaze dark and speculative on her face. Though she wore no robe over her nightgown, her fragile frame showed no gooseflesh, held no shiver—her soft lips did not tremble, only quietly curved. Her skin was translucent in the morning light, as smooth and white as the snow around them, the thin scar on her cheekbone the alabaster's only tarnish.

_Beautiful..._

Those eyes—they were the ones he'd seen on the Hogwarts Express… the ones that were so soft and so full of secrets. Here before him was that other girl, that alluring, impossible mystery—that exquisite ghost that could be as close as this and yet a million miles away.

Her eyes peered into his as if trying to find something long lost. But she discovered nothing, nothing but his dark eyes looking back at her. Her lips curved. "You took away the armor. You made me see truth." Her soft smile grew as she watched his brows furrow. "This time there's nothing standing between us," she told him. "There's nothing to hide behind. Only the real me and the real you. Without walls."

And then her smile faded. One long moment passed. "Don't expect anything at all," she warned him softly.

Draco frowned, the familiar words awakening some gnawing awareness inside of him. His intense eyes searched her coded ones. What was she saying? Why did it sound like some sort of secret message?

Why did it sound eerily like some sort of goodbye?

Apparently he wasn't the only one who was bothered, because Harry burst forward. "That's enough."

Hermione suddenly felt herself being seized from behind and swung up into angry, possessive arms. She didn't struggle as, without another word, Harry turned on his heel and stormed back towards the castle, cradling her protectively against his chest.

The Dark Lord watched them go with affectionate eyes. "Yes, best get her far away from here," he called to Harry's back. "Preferably farther away than the last time."

Harry said nothing, only continued to walk determinedly through the snow.

Voldemort glanced to the man beside him. "Draco. Tend to the men."

But the blond-haired man didn't seem to hear him. His dark, intense gaze was glued on Potter's retreating form—on the girl in his arms, whose fathomless eyes had never left Draco's, even as she'd been hauled up and carried away.

"_Draco_," the Dark Lord repeated dangerously. "_Tend_ to the _men_."

Draco's jaw worked. His haunted eyes stayed on Hermione for one last long moment. And then, fists clenching, he turned and headed back to the woods.

Only Dumbledore and Voldemort remained, facing each other across the snow. They studied each other—one grim, dignified, righteous; the other cool, satisfied, wicked.

"These headstrong young people," the hooded man sighed. "They can be so difficult to keep in check." His thin mouth curved conspiratorially. "But then—you would know all about that, wouldn't you?"

Dumbledore regarded the face beyond the hood with scathing eyes. "I am happy to say that I have no such knowledge. I do not physically harm or emotionally manipulate my students as a method of discipline. And I certainly have never used my magic to control them for my own selfish purposes." He shook his head. "What you've done to those three particular young people is reprehensible. The position you've put them in—"

"They have put themselves in this position," Voldemort snapped sharply. And then he let his gaze travel to the army that waited, brave and patient, in the distance. His smile turned satisfied. "You all have," he laughed quietly. He brought his eyes back to assess his old professor. "So here we are," he observed mildly after a while.

"Yes," Dumbledore answered calmly. "Here we are."

Voldemort folded his long, skeletal fingers together. "We have been waiting for this day for a very long time, you and I," he said quietly. "Ever since that day you first came into my life." His eyes surveyed their surroundings fondly, as if somehow they could already see the chaos, before slowly finding their way back to the other man's. "You didn't know then what you were inviting into your world…"

"I knew you had power beyond your understanding. I wanted only to help you. I wanted to give you something you'd never had. A community of people like you. A sense of belonging. A chance." He shook his head gravely. "Without that, I knew you would never find your way."

"But there _is_ no one like me, Dumbledore. We both figured that out, didn't we?" Voldemort taunted. "I didn't belong here any more than I did in that orphanage—your students were no more my _equals_ than the feeble fools I had left behind. I always had something far greater inside of me. I was always _better_." He looked the older man over, his smile turning into sneer. "But _you_ wanted me to suppress my power."

"I wanted you to harness it."

"You wanted to keep me from surpassing you."

"I wanted to save you from yourself."

"And here we are, so many years later—you with your little militia and me with my hardened warriors." Voldemort smiled slowly. "Still think I need saving?"

"Now more than ever," Dumbledore informed him sadly. "But you've chosen your path, Tom. I am afraid you have been beyond saving for a very long time." He shook his head solemnly. "There is no coming back from some roads..."

Voldemort shared none of the older man's regret. "Yes, there is only _forward_ for me now. Only closer and closer to victory."

"Victory." Dumbledore shook his head bitterly. "Your obsession has twisted your heart, Tom. And your vision. It has blinded you to the truth."

"Then by all means—enlighten me."

Dumbledore looked his former student over with a strange mixture of sadness and scorn. His eyes searched beyond the hood for some remnants or semblance of the man he'd once known. But all he found was a stranger. A monster.

"Nothing I say can help you now," he said grimly. "It is as I always feared it would be. You have been completely overtaken by the darkness. You once controlled the power, but now the power controls you." His eyes warily scanned over sunken, skeletal features. "Just look at what you have become…"

The monster's chin rose proudly. "Yes. Look at what I have become."

His triumphant gaze was shaded from the sunlight, but Dumbledore could still see the bright red veins that cracked and bled in the whites of his eyes. "You think you have achieved some sort of greatness?" he asked in disgust. "You have made yourself a _slave_, Tom—a slave to your ambition. You are nothing more than your schemes now. You are nothing more than your fears."

"And _you_ are nothing more than a sad old man who has squandered his formidable power for some false, foolish sense of decency." The Dark Lord's voice was suddenly sharp and scathing, the other man's words beginning to chip away at his smooth demeanor. "You could have this world wrapped around your littlest, frailest finger. But you douse out your own flame until it is nothing more than a flicker because you are too much of a coward to find out how bright you can burn." He shook his head. "_You_ are the slave, Dumbledore," he accused disdainfully. "You have enslaved yourself in the prison of your precious, made-up morals. You keep your power chained down and locked away." He smiled slowly, contemptuously. "_I_ am not afraid of my own potential. I choose to _embrace_ my power. I choose to be _free_."

"At what cost? You have tainted _every life_ you have touched, Tom. You have ended _countless_ lives for your selfish ambition!"

"Yes," Voldemort agreed, snide and unremorseful. "And once I am finally rid of _your_ pesky existence—and Harry Potter's—I will have no one left to stop me, and nothing to stand in my way. I will fear nothing when you are gone and I am immortal."

Dumbledore's gray brows furrowed with blatant disgust. "You are so fixated on obtaining eternal life that you cannot see you have all but killed yourself. In your warpath to immortality, you have paved the way to your own doom. All for something you will never possess. All for a fight you can never win."

"Oh, but I _can_ win," Voldemort promised menacingly. "And I will."

Dumbledore could only shake his head resignedly. "You are still the child grasping in the dark for what is beyond his understanding. And it is your own hubris that has kept you ignorant and blind. What happens here today won't matter in the end, Tom, because you—and you _alone_—are the reason for your defeat."

Voldemort's red eyes became baleful slits. "You cannot tell me that immortality is impossible when I know you held the source of it in your hands and then threw it away."

Dumbledore shook his head. "There may be forces on this earth that can keep a heart beating," he admitted grimly. "But there is no spell or curse that can save a person's soul. That lies in human hands. And human choices. In your misguided quest to keep the body breathing, you have destroyed the man that was once inside." He gestured dismissively to the ravaged form before him. "You have fed this empty shell and let the soul within it whither away—and you have become so _backward_ that you cannot even see that it is the wrong part of yourself that you've kept alive. The part that doesn't matter a whit." He let out a harsh breath. "You will never have eternal life because you are already dead," he said meaningfully. "You let Tom Riddle die long ago. And so he cannot live forever. He cannot even be revived." Slowly, sadly, he shook his head. "Your battle is already lost, Tom. It was lost long before today."

Voldemort looked the older man over with a sinister smile. "You underestimate me, professor. As usual," he said quietly. "Believe me when I say it will be for the last time."

Dumbledore's shoulders seemed to sag. "Do what you must, Tom. So will I," he said warily. "What comes of it all, we will leave to Fate."

Voldemort nodded slowly—smugly. "Indeed."

They regarded each other silently for one long last moment. And then, together, they both slowly turned and headed back through the snow to their respective sides.

* * *

Harry didn't stop as he marched Hermione through the horrified crowd and into the shelter of the castle—didn't acknowledge or seem to notice the concerned individuals that broke away to hurry after them. He set her down on the stones, raked his eyes over her—turned and paced away, overcome by what he saw. He spent careful moments taking in calming, recovering breaths. When he turned back to her, his eyes were dark and his jaw was tight. "What is this." He gestured wildly to the scars. "What is all of this!" he questioned violently. His jaw worked when she didn't answer. "Hermione!" he demanded.

Hermione's gaze fell. "I'll tell you everything when this is over. Right now there's no time to explain."

Harry let out a harsh sound. "You're bloody well right about that!" He shook his head at her, at himself. "God, I knew getting you on that train was too easy," he said bitterly. He pressed his shaking fingers into his eyes—tried to take in a deep and calming breath. His whole body was tense when he finally drew his hand away. "The castle has been closed off," he told her with brittle patience. "No one else is coming in—and no one else is going out. So what the hell am I supposed to do with you," he asked her expectantly. "How am I going to protect you now?"

Hermione offered him no answer, only watched him with those solemn brown eyes.

"We have to get her to Hogsmede, Harry," he heard Ron say from behind him. "It's the only place. She'll be looked after there."

"No doubt Poppy could use the extra hands," Lupin added quietly.

Harry didn't look at them. He didn't take his intense eyes off of Hermione. "See to it," he commanded shortly. "Now." And then he turned to storm away.

"No."

The soft and resolute word had him whipping back around. "Excuse me?" he asked dangerously.

One tense moment passed. "I said no," she repeated quietly. She met his narrowed gaze calmly. "There's something I have to do."

"Yes—" he agreed harshly, "you have to do what I say." He shook his head, incredulous. How dare she try to defy him now, when the devil was literally on their doorstep! "This place isn't safe—what part of that are you not understanding? Whatever else is on your agenda will have to wait." His brows furrowed when she merely shook her head and slowly began to back away. "Hermione…" he warned her.

Her earnest gaze pleaded with his to understand. "I'm sorry…" she softly recited his own words back to him. "I know this isn't what you want. But it's for the best."

He watched, alarmed, as she suddenly turned and began to hurry away.

"Hermione!"

He started after her, but someone grabbed his arm, holding him back. "Let her go."

Harry's gaze snapped around—and found Ginny's tawny ones staring back at him. "_You_." His eyes narrowed, disgusted—betrayed. He shook his head bitterly. "I should have known." He wrenched his arm out of her grasp and followed after the girl who was quickly gliding down the hallway. "Hermione—come back here!"

She only quickened her step.

"Harry, hold on." Ginny quickly caught up with him, trying again to grab his arm. When that didn't stop him, she scurried around him to block his way. "Harry, wait. Harry—" He pushed past her with a glare. Ginny didn't follow, didn't turn, only closed her eyes. "She knows the counter-curse."

Harry stopped short, turned back with a frown. "What?"

Slowly, Ginny turned to face him. She nodded meaningfully. "She knows what to do, Harry. You have to let her go."

Harry's alert gaze went back to the end of the corridor—just in time to see the girl in the white nightgown disappear from sight. He paced forward a few steps, as if he still meant to go after her—shook his head restlessly, clenched his jaw, held himself where he was. "Get yourself somewhere safe, Hermione, for the love of God!" he called down the corridor. The silence he was met with made the sound of his desperate voice echo against the walls.

When he turned again, his gaze was dark—deadly. He rounded on Ginny with murder in his eyes.

"Harry—"

"_You_—I could _strangle_ you." His tense hands came up, shaking in front of her throat with restrained violence.

Ginny shook her head incredulously. "She was going to come without me, Harry. Think of what might have happened if she had!"

"Don't pretend you didn't _jump_ at the chance to get back here," he spat furiously. "You and your bloody stubbornness will be the death of us all!"

"Ha! Harry Potter accusing _me_ of stubbornness! Might as well be the pot calling the kettle black!"

"I told you to stay on the train!" he shouted in her face. "I _begged_ you, Ginny! I trusted you to make sure she didn't come back here—the _single _comfort I had was knowing that both of you would be _safe_!" His hands seized her shoulders, shaking her a little. His eyes raked over her, raw and wretched. "Don't you see—" he said desperately, "I can't help you now. In a few minutes, this place will be up in flames." His hands slid away, as if suddenly numb. "And I won't be able to save you. I can't even save myself."

Ginny's eyes softened as they searched the haunted depths of his. Her head tilted to the side with a fond, sad sort of smile. "Do you really think Hermione and I could have lived with ourselves knowing that we turned our backs and let you die so that we didn't have to?" She shook her head when he sent her a resentful glance. "You've made too many sacrifices for us already, Harry," she told him quietly. "Now it's our turn to try to help _you_."

He swallowed. His eyes searched hers, dark—vulnerable. "But what if you can't?" he whispered almost brokenly.

Ginny's brave smile never faltered, but it wasn't reassuring. It was determined—grim. Slowly, she took his cold, dry hands and held them firmly in both of hers. "We started this together," she told him meaningfully. "We'll end it together—one way or the other."

* * *

Now that the fighting was imminent, the Dark Lord had made off for someplace safe, gone before anyone could think to look for him like a shadow that fades stealthily into the night. The dirty work was now left completely in his Heir's hands—the battle was completely Draco's to win or lose. And if he didn't come through with the victory—if Harry Potter and Albus Dumbledore didn't lose this battle, lose their _lives_—the Dark Lord would make him pay.

By making Hermione pay.

His army was quiet but restless behind him, waiting for the orders that still hadn't come. Lucius stood near the front, arms crossed over his broad chest, eyes glaring, not at the enemy, but at the back of his son's head. Upton Parkinson looked to him with one thick, skeptical brow raised, and he forced a reassuring—if irritated—smile. That tense smile became a snarl as soon as he turned away. His eyes immediately sliced to young Zabini—commanded the young man forward with an impatient jerk of his head.

Blaise nodded his understanding and slowly stepped forward, crossing his arms as he came to survey the people in the distance with his friend. "So… I don't know if you've noticed, mate—but the people behind you are getting a little impatient," he stated casually. "What are we waiting on?"

"Potter."

Zabini looked to the side. "Potter…?" he asked his friend knowingly. "Or Granger?"

Draco's jaw worked, but he didn't take his eyes off the rows of faces. "Now that she's here we have to be careful," he said quietly. His hands tightened into fists—resentful, resolved. "Nothing can happen to her."

Blaise looked consciously behind them, to where Lucius Malfoy was watching—and no doubt listening. "Right. Because what happens to her happens to the Dark Lord."

Draco's dark gaze glanced resentfully over his shoulder. "Right." He looked back out, searching the distance. "We need her out of danger as much as they do now. I'm not giving any orders until I know she's safe."

"Stand by. Your wish is being granted as we speak."

Draco followed his bland gaze, finding the distant but discernable form of his childhood nemesis. "Potter…"

"_Sans_ his cursed companion," Blaise observed, watching the Weasleys emerge after him, but not Hermione. He brought his eyes around, nodded to Malfoy. "I guess that means it's time to get this show on the road...?" He twisted the words so that they were a sort of skeptical question, one that his friend would have to answer definitively—yes or no.

Draco heard the question, knew that he had to answer—knew that time had officially run out. Hermione was safe somewhere. So was Voldemort. Nothing was standing between him and Potter now. Nothing was stopping them. There was no reason to delay.

Teeth grinding painfully, he closed his eyes, watching all who waited before and behind him fade to black. In their place, Hermione appeared without being summoned, a fragile but perfect image of her that smiled behind his eyes. He spent long moments taking in deep, silent breaths, focusing on her, drawing willpower from that smile, from her eyes, from her heartbeat, which he could somehow hear in his head—and which he knew depended completely on him.

"Malfoy."

Slowly, Draco opened his eyes back to the sunlight. They were cool now, calm and utterly unwavering, the grey in them showing nothing but indomitable ice. Cool reserve inhabited him, dissolving any questions or apprehensions or regrets, making him steady and self-composed. He was all control now—all purpose, and nothing more. He was all and only what he had to be for her.

Wand gripped tightly, he took a step forward. "Wands ready!" His voice was firm, unhesitant—unfeeling—rising above the cool winter air for all his army to hear. He held his wand up high for all behind him to see. "We charge on my command," he called above the silence. "Ready…" Long moments passed. "Ready…" And then he threw his arm forward, the tip of his wand pointing decisively ahead. "_Forward!_"

Draco felt his people charge past him towards the castle, saw color and light flash as it ejected all at once from their wands. Potter and his lines raged forward to meet them, unafraid, parrying and attacking with decisive spells of their own.

The clearing, so calm and so still, was suddenly all violence and chaos, all devastating clashes of color and sound. Without hesitation, Draco ran straight into the blood-bright madness. He _had_ to save Hermione. Like that fateful night on the balcony, he didn't think twice.

* * *

Harry was ducking and rolling with some primal survival instinct, dirty and drenched in winter wet as he dodged the onslaught of light. People were screaming—war cries, death cries—and blood from both sides already soaked the ground, staining it red. Bodies from both armies already lie motionless in the snow; others were moaning and writhing with wounds, waiting for runners to carry them to safety—or for death to bring them their final relief. Harry didn't stop—couldn't—not to help, not even to look—only jumped over and skirted around them as if they were hurdles, running from the spells that relentlessly chased after him.

His eyes darted alertly around the chaos. Ron was holding his own, but they'd lost Ginny somewhere in the thick of it. He searched for her now with desperate eyes. Out of the corner of one, he saw something whizzing toward him—he deflected the bright yellow light almost absently, sent it back, hitting his mark as if it was somehow second nature. The cloaked figure fell, but Harry's bright gaze was already scanning back into the madness. Where was Ginny? God, where was Ginny!

Suddenly, he felt something cool and heavy snake around his ankles and swiftly pull tight. By the time he could react, it was already too late—the chains had tightened painfully, drawing his legs together, instantly forcing him to the ground. He took a calming breath, told himself not to panic, even as the heavy chains continued to twine around his prone body. With one cheek pressed into the snow, he watched as the metal vine surged through the air to find its other victims—watched as his fellow comrades fell to the ground like a line of dominoes, one after the other, the strong metallic rope wrapping brutally around each of them as it passed. It coiled around their bodies until their limbs were constricted in the snow and their breath was all but choked from their lungs.

An older man a few feet off was struggling against the metal, flailing as the chains squeezed around his midriff, rendering him helpless. "You're pulling it tighter!" Harry choked out, but the man didn't hear anything above his own panic. "Hey!' Harry yelled. "_Hey!_" The man's eyes found his. "Use your wand!" Harry watched as the man felt the snow around him for the wand that he'd let slip from his fingers. But any other direction he might have given was cut off as he felt the chains constrict around his own body. Breathing through the pain of violent suffocation—and limited by the arms that were now locked against his sides—Harry spent long, careful seconds struggling to turn the tip of his wand against the iron. When he thought he'd managed it, he said something in Latin. The words came out through gritted teeth. A red light shot from his wand, but missed the metallic links, firing point blank into Harry's thigh. A sound of agony tore from his lips, and he felt blood pulse down his leg and soak into the material of his pants. Still, he wasted no time in gritting his teeth, re-angling his wand, and trying again. This time, the red light tore through its proper target, snapping the chain in two.

Harry urgently unraveled the weighted rope from around his body and pushed himself up out of the snow. Running despite the throbbing in his thigh, he helped to free the others who had been rendered completely immobile by the chains.

There were shouted commands—cries and screams, pleas and prayers—but discernable sound was lost in the chaos. Harry was sprinting through hell, all urgency and purpose—and yet he wasn't sure which way to go. It seemed there was someone who needed help in every direction. And none of them was Ginny. Ginny was nowhere to be found.

It was just as he'd known it would be. With her here in this chaos, he wasn't focused. With her life in danger, his purpose was skewed. He wasn't determined to win, or even to survive—his whole being was fixated on finding _her_. She was obsessing him—distracting him. Driving him out of his mind! He had said she would be the death of him—and she very nearly had been. If he didn't push her from his mind now, if he didn't _focus_, one of these bastards was bound to get the best of him.

But even as he told himself not to, he searched for her, his eyes alert as he darted through the turmoil. He did not look for her among the dead—didn't acknowledge the possibility that she might be one of them. She was alive. She had to be alive.

* * *

Draco was running—ducking fast—dodging a bright blue light, sending a red flame in return. He was firing spells with effortless precision—without hesitance, without remorse. He knew later that each uttered word would haunt him, but now, in the moment, he had no time for such indulgence.

Another light came streaming towards him, forcing him to change directions—and suddenly he tripped over something solid in the snow, causing him to stumble to his knees. A body, he acknowledged numbly. He scrambled back to his feet, his eyes glancing for only the barest of seconds at the man—the corpse—that had caused him to fall.

Brandon Madison.

Draco was up and running again in an instant, forcing the image—and the regret—out of his mind. If it had been any other day, any other time, he might have done differently—might have let himself experience the surprising and crippling surge of regret. How many times had he felt like killing Madison? How many times had he clenched his fists to keep from reaching for his wand, to keep from strangling the sod with his own bare hands?

But he'd never done it—never would have. Whatever their qualms, Madison hadn't deserved _this_. He was just a bloke, like any other—_like him_—so young, so bright, so full of promise. This wasn't how it should have ended. If it were any other day, Draco would have acknowledged that.

But he didn't let himself go there, not now when he needed to focus. Remorse would only handicap him now. He would have all the time in the world when this was over to be haunted by what he'd let happen and what he'd done.

Draco only got a few feet before he was forced to the ground again, this time by some stray charm that blew through him like tornado, knocking him over, knocking the wind out of his lungs. He felt more than saw someone coming toward him, wand drawn and ready to do damage. Was this it, then, he wondered absently? Was this how it ended? Was he meant to follow Madison, who lay still and silent in the snow?

Would his death, too, be meaningless? Would it be for nothing?

Dozens upon dozens of lives were being wasted—witches and wizards, some little more than children. They hadn't had a chance to really see the world. They hadn't had a chance to really live their lives.

Neither had he. He'd only had brief glimpses of life's true potential. He'd only known true happiness once, for a very short time…

With Hermione…

And then suddenly he snapped out of his mind and back into the moment. Hermione! Remembering her hardened him instantly—reminded him of his purpose. It couldn't end here, not now, not like this. Because if his story ended here—so did hers.

Willpower and strict control swiftly took the place of all the rhetoric and regret that had momentarily seeped beyond the stone. Without emotion, without anything but precision and purpose, he pointed his wand. With a decisive word, he was firing at the person charging toward him—rising and running on, not watching the man fall.

* * *

Harry and Ron were fighting side by side, hurling spells at the enemy with a strange and solemn calmness. More bodies lined the ground now—though which army had suffered more casualties, it was impossible to tell. The two friends didn't let them be a distraction, didn't even spare them a glance to see who they were. They needed to focus on the living. They needed to stay alert to stay alive.

Harry became aware of someone tearing towards him—turned with his wand drawn, ready to ward the person off. It wasn't someone attacking, he realized absently, but someone retreating—a woman trying to scramble away from some large thing that stalked after her. His eyes narrowed—then widened suddenly. "What the…" And then he grabbed Ron by the sleeve, dragging him along as he turned on his heel and broke into a run.

It was a _werewolf_ that charged towards them, giant and ferocious, fangs gnashing and snarling with appetite and intent. But how? The sun was out and shining. There was no moon—let alone a full one!

Harry's scattered thoughts were interrupted by a new wave of terrified screams and a stampede of panicked people. Suddenly it seemed that hell had unleashed on earth as wild beasts of every kind emerged from the shadows of the forest. They came in feral packs, like demons drawn to an apocalypse—dragons, chimaeras, a manticore, a cockatrice, trolls, ghouls, and what seemed like a hundred other terrifying species. They blocked out the sun, shook the ground of the clearing, hunting the prey that they found in their path.

Harry threw spells over his shoulder, trying to help a Ministry worker being terrorized by a chimaera. But every spell he fired at it proved utterly useless—the creature remained unaffected. It was as if Harry had shot mere pellets at the animal, only succeeding in agitating it further. What were these creatures? How were they invincible?

"Harry—" He felt Ron clutch his arm in a vice grip, suddenly paralyzed by something he saw ahead. He frowned as his friend began to breathe hard, began to shake his head wildly from side to side. "No…" Ron released him and began to stumble forward, sinking to his knees a ways off in the red snow. "No, no. Oh God—_no!_"

Harry heard the howl of anguish tear from his friend—heard it, and felt his whole world _stop_. He watched, frozen, as Ron dragged two familiar forms out of the snow and over his lap—watched as he bent over the wilted bodies, sobbing as he gathered them close.

Time suddenly stood still. The chaos around Harry was suddenly silent, and all he could hear in his head was the steady pounding of his own heart. He stepped forward slowly, as if in a trance—knelt silently in the snow, his gaze transfixed on the nightmare that was all too real before his eyes.

Ginny's lifeless body was strewn over Ron's lap, her brown eyes open and unseeing, glazed over with death. Her face was as white as the snow around her, her once-pink lips straight and colorless. A strand of her auburn hair was pasted to her forehead with a sickening mixture of blood and snow and sweat. Beside her, Hermione lay pale and still, one limp, cold hand squeezed in Ron's fierce grip, the other buried underneath the snow. Her dark glassy eyes stared directly at Harry's—stared into them, through them, seeing nothing.

They were dead. Ginny and Hermione were dead. It was all that registered—that, and nothing more.

Ron was sobbing, rocking his dead sister in his arms, his wails deep and almost inhuman, as if grief was ripping out of him from somewhere inside his very core. But Harry shed no tears. He made no sound. He was like marble, unable to weep, unable to think, unable to move.

He didn't wonder if Voldemort was dead—didn't wonder if Hermione had lifted the curse first, didn't care. They were dead. Hermione and Ginny were dead. Nothing else entered. Nothing else mattered.

He didn't know how long they sat there in the midst of—and yet somehow impervious to—the chaos. He didn't know how long he stared blindly at the girls—the wilted remains of his shattered world. An eternity had gone by, untouched and silent, before the faint echo of a voice began to reach him from beyond the haze.

"Harry." He heard the familiar voice as if from underwater. It didn't register, didn't make any sense. "Harry, get up."

Harry blinked. That voice—it sounded so familiar. Like Ginny's—smooth and warm and vibrant.

But it wasn't Ginny's. His eyes were on her flaccid figure—on her pallid face, which stared blindly up at the grey sky. Those lips, the ones that had haunted and tormented him—they no longer held any of the rosy warmth of before. They were white now—and still—and irrevocably silent. No smile or pout would ever curve them; no voice would ever flow through them. It wasn't her he heard calling his name… because she was gone.

"Harry—Ron—get up, you idiots!" He felt someone seize the hood of his jacket and pull, trying to yank him up out of the snow.

Ron's burning gaze snapped up—sharpened uncomprehendingly on the familiar face—then slowly went back down to the motionless face of his sister. He was confused, uncertain, afraid of what was real and what was phantasm—terrified that he'd lost his mind with his sister.

Because there, above him, was a girl with her same features—only flushed and urgent and very much alive!

"Ginny?" he asked, his weak voice cracking. And then he scrambled to his feet and faced the girl, grabbing her shoulders, making sure she wasn't a figment of his imagination.

Making sure she wasn't a ghost.

She wasn't. She was flesh and blood. She was _alive_!

Harry rose, his green, unblinking eyes intent on her face.

"But how?" Ron sputtered, looking between the image of her standing before him and the image of her motionless corpse on the ground. "You... you..."

"They're boggarts," she shouted over the ruckus. "They're all boggarts! Look—" Ginny turned her wand on the bloodied bodies in the snow. "_Riddikulus!_"

The two bodies suddenly blinked and lifted their heads. The boys watched, astounded, as they sprung to life and, amidst the violence and turmoil, proceeded to dance a hearty jig.

"Come on!" Ginny broke into a run, and the boys went after her, tearing across the clearing towards the edge of the woods. Breathing hard, they ducked behind the wide trunk of a tree: Ron leaning back against it, catching his breath; Ginny peering carefully around it; Harry standing off a ways, his fists clenching tight.

"Bastards," Ginny spat, watching as the remainder of their army tried to fight off their deepest fears. "They had to bring boggarts into it. Like all this wasn't already terrifying enough." Wiping dirt and sweat from her brow, she looked to her brother. "Where have you two been, anyway? I've been running all over the place and haven't seen you." Ron, still panting hard, could only shake his head. Her gaze went to the other boy for answers. "Harry?"

Harry didn't respond. He only watched her intensely, his eyes burning into her as if she was some unfathomable mirage.

Ginny frowned. "Harry…?" she asked again, becoming cautious.

He swallowed. Still, he didn't move, didn't blink.

"My heart stopped beating." His voice was quiet, chilled. His gaze raked over her face. "I thought you were dead."

Ginny's brown eyes softened. She wore a tired smile. "You're not going to get rid of me that easily, Harry."

He only continued to watch her. He didn't smile back. "Hermione?" he asked after what seemed like a long time.

Ginny shook her head apologetically. "I haven't seen her."

Harry nodded, letting his grim gaze shift back out to the mayhem. He didn't let himself think that she might be out there in the middle of it—didn't let himself think that she might already be dead. She was still alive, he convinced himself. There was still a chance she could lift the curse.

He clung to that as if it was his only lifeline… and really, it was. There was no other hope for victory—for justice—for survival. He could defeat every Death Eater he came across today, could deflect ever ball of light and send back every flame. But when all of that was finished and the only person left to face was Voldemort, Harry knew he would not win. As long as the curse stayed in place, he couldn't touch his tormentor. He couldn't—_wouldn't_—fight him. Not as long as it meant fighting Hermione, too.

So he gripped tight to the image of Hermione hidden safe somewhere in the castle, her spell books open, her hands deftly compiling ingredients and incantations—working whatever magic she'd learned was needed to lift this wretched curse.

He didn't let go of that image, only stored it away in the back of his mind where it stayed far enough away to keep him from being distracted and present enough to keep him motivated. This was his last chance, his _only_ chance to make Voldemort pay for what he'd done—to Harry and his parents… to Hermione… to the people here today. To everything and everyone who had been tainted by his destruction.

Harry's eyes roamed from the chaos in the clearing to the castle that had once been his only haven, his only home. Even the ancient edifice, which had once seemed so invincible, now wore the jagged scars of Voldemort's destructive touch. The stone walls were scorched with ash and splintered with cracks where stray spells had struck after missing their marks. There were holes, some so big that one could see straight through to the castle's interior, and pieces of broken rubble sat piled above the snow. Black smoke was rising in wisps from the towers, darkening the empty grey sky above.

He let his eyes run up and down his ruined home, trying to remember what it had looked like yesterday. For some reason he couldn't.

"Got your breath back?" he heard Ginny ask her brother, whose cheeks were still ruddy, but wiped clean of tears. Ron nodded. "Well get ready to lose it again," she warned him quietly.

Three pairs of eyes clashed fatefully with each other. No more words were said. With grim nods, the three friends faced the pandemonium—charged back into it, side by side.

* * *

Above the madness, from the castle's tallest tower, Hermione watched the battle with unreadable eyes. Smoke veiled the sun above her, casting a grey shadow over the blood and bright light that splattered and spilled over the white world below.

The blockade around the castle was in tatters now, the organized lines of upright soldiers scattered, some of them scraping by with their lives—more of them strewn, still and silent, in the winter snow. It was enough to horrify even the most hardened of men, but Hermione did not turn away, did not so much as blink. Her gaze stayed fixed on the nightmare before her. She had no tears, no expression—no emotion. She was calm, her heartbeat steady, her breathing even.

Across the sky, at eye level, a familiar raven soared over the turmoil towards her, its black feathers absorbing all the smoke and grey light. She studied it as it drew nearer—nearer still. It seemed to hold none of the sympathy, the softness it had had that day; that afternoon, not long before—but seeming like ages—when it had nuzzled its feathered head comfortingly against her, cool limp hand. It was not the solemn scavenger now, not the sympathetic messenger, but the purposeful, powerful one, come to see its omen pass. It was the one that waited upon the Grim Reaper, dark and dutiful—the one that had to obey, had to follow and fly to wherever there was death.

It headed for her with strong, majestic flaps of its wings. She waited in patient silence for it to come to her. But just as it swooped down, just as she was about to reach out her arm to catch it, she felt someone else's arm reach out from beside her first—felt more than saw that it belonged to the Grim Reaper himself, a tall, daunting figure draped in elegant black.

The raven settled on its master's outstretched arm, on the heavy black velvet of his sleeve, bowing its head as one skeletal hand passed slowly over its smooth feathers. Though Hermione knew him immediately, she did not run, did not cower. She did not even turn to acknowledge his presence, only let him and his bird observe the chaos with her in silence.

"Quite the view, isn't it?" he asked at length, his red eyes overseeing the madness, his voice a quiet rasp, and yet somehow silky warm. "It is like you," he told her. "Filthy. _Fascinating_." He slanted her a look, his hard mouth tinted with a chiding smile. "But you are standing a bit too close to it for comfort. It is dangerous here. You should not have remained."

Hermione didn't take her eyes off the chaos. "I was waiting for you."

The Dark Lord turned to examine her fully. "Oh?"

"I wanted to talk to you."

His gaze was skeptical and interested on her profile. "Well. I am here now. What is it you wished to talk about?"

Hermione slowly turned to face him, not right away, but in her own time. She surprised him by looking him directly in the eyes. "The curse," she told him simply. "I want you to lift it." She tilted her head. "That is… I'm _asking_ you to lift it."

Voldemort's mouth tilted, amused. Impressed. "An interesting approach. I almost wish I could oblige you."

Hermione watched as he gently urged the bird off of his arm and onto the parapet, where it stood watching like some sort of guardian over the carnage. "But you can't?" she asked, searching his bloodshot gaze carefully. His only answer was a smile. She nodded slowly. "You mean you won't."

A moment passed by, long and careful. "No," he answered her. "I won't."

"But not because you can't. Not because there isn't a cure."

"No," he admitted slyly, "not because of that. There _is_ a cure; there is always a cure. Every question has its answer, every problem its solution—it is only ever a matter of figuring it out. You may rest assured, Hermione—there _is_ a way to lift the curse." His scarlet gaze watched her with quiet, arrogant triumph. "But I plan on keeping it close to my heart."

He patted over the area with one long, pale hand, his palm brushing a strange black boutonniere that was pinned there to his robe.

Her eyes turned speculative, considering the flower for one long moment before traveling slowly back up to meet his. "If you know the counter-curse, it would be in your best interest to use it."

"You mean it would be in _your _best interest."

"As you like," Hermione replied with a nonchalant shrug. "What's good for me is good for you now. What's bad for me is bad for you." Her lips tilted humorlessly. "You saw to that."

The Dark Lord watched her interestedly, carefully, as if assessing a puzzle not easily solved. "Desperate times call for desperate measures," he informed her, his gaze searching hers, waiting for her to give something away. She said nothing, gave nothing, only wore that impassive face. "You understand, of course," he went on smoothly. "When one has been clawing at a locked door for as long as I have, he does not hesitate to use the key when it falls into his lap."

"And you believe _I_ am the key?"

Her skepticism made him smile. "Believe me, I was as surprised as you are." He watched her, a laughing sort of sympathy dancing in his crimson eyes. "Poor girl. It is not a fair game I am playing with you, is it? Rotten of me, I know." He shook his head slowly, his smile turning speculative. "But then—it appears you are accustomed to people not playing fair." His red eyes roamed meaningfully, intently over her unconcealed skin. "You were someone else's plaything long before you were ever mine." His intense gaze traveled over the white scars that crossed her body like whip marks; over the burned, disfigured skin that was stretched thin from her delicate shoulder to the elegant column of her throat. His hand came up, reaching inside his robe, fascinated by the feel of the stripes and ridges on his own chest and tight, scalded skin against his own protruding collarbone.

His red, rapt eyes shifted back to her wary ones. Yes, someone had made a rag doll of Hermione Granger. The only question was _who_. Who had done this to her? Why?

"What happened to you?" he asked, his gaze searching hers in wonder.

Hermione didn't answer, not right away. Purposefully, she looked over his skeletal form, his reptilian features, her eyes assessing their pallid gauntness before coming back up to calmly meet his. Her chin rose slowly, almost imperceptibly. "What happened to _you_?" she dared to ask back.

The Dark Lord said nothing, only beheld her in spellbound silence. What was this strange, unearthly creature, he thought as he studied her? In all his years of living, he had never come across her kind before. She was not of this world—_could_ not be. For who, other than him, could stand in the flames of hell without burning? Who could stand before Satan himself, so stolid and poised; who could look him in the eyes, so bold and unblinking? This was no ordinary girl, no ordinary mudblood—no ordinary witch. This girl was something else, made of something else entirely.

His scarlet eyes scoured her, gripped by a surge of admiration—of _wonder_—that he found he couldn't help. It was as if he were staring, not at a human being—not at a _mudblood_—but at some strange, rare, beautiful bird. Her face, pale and translucent, was utterly serene. Her dark, fathomless eyes were clear and direct; they watched the world crumble and shatter into pieces—and yet they held no tears, no _fear_, he observed with fascination. She stood in the violence, and yet somehow removed from it, unscathed by it. Somehow, some way, she was impervious.

His gaze ran over her body like a careful caress. He hadn't expected this—this battle-scarred seraph, silent and serene, this ethereal vision all in white. He hadn't expected these—these marks of wars waged against her, wars she had gone into and somehow come out the other side alive. He admired the jagged carvings left by some sadistic sculptor—the stretched, disfigured skin where flesh had melted under heat. Someone had tried to tear her apart, but had only managed to slice her open. Someone had tried to burn her alive, but had only managed to scorch her skin. This war-worn angel was no stranger to the heat of battle. She wore its marks like a brand on her skin. She had been to hell before, had been there and back again a hundred times—had lived there so long that she was now immune to the flames.

_Just like him…_

Voldemort suddenly felt a strange sensation—suddenly felt something he had never felt before. He felt _kinship_ to another human being. He felt there was someone else like him, someone extraordinary trapped in this ordinary world.

He felt, for the first time, that he was not alone.

Awareness weighed in his cold heart, made it feel foreign in his body. It wasn't just the _Cruor Unum_, he realized. They were connected by another curse—one neither of them had chosen, one neither of them had cast. It was the curse of being _different_—of being more than the others, of being less. It was the curse of being human and yet not being so. He and this girl—they were as different as two people could be. And yet they were the same. They were of the same inhuman breed—both trying to capture that elusive essence of light, of life; both trying to fill that empty cavern where warmth and humanity should be.

The Dark Lord knew he had never met a worthy adversary. He knew he had never met his _true equal_ until today.

And suddenly, strangely, he was grateful that she would live, that he wouldn't have to kill her—grateful that he would be able to keep her, like a butterfly in a jar, like a bird in a cage. The thought of doing away with this scarred and beautiful creature completely left him oddly affected—oddly alone.

"You are a curious thing, Hermione Granger," he observed quietly. "I see now why the boy took to you."

Hermione's eyes drifted grimly, guiltily back out to the chaos. "For all the good it's done him…" she whispered warily.

Voldemort's red eyes narrowed, speculative. She thought he referred to Harry Potter, he realized amusedly. My, my—his Heir's performance must have been convincing indeed.

At length, he turned to follow her gaze, smiling to himself as he viewed the red fruits of his labor. "Your little friend has put forth a valiant effort," he told her. "But as you can see, it will not be enough to save them. Your army is all but defeated." He glanced to the side, to her profile. "Soon you will be all that is left of them."

Hermione didn't answer. She didn't say or do anything, only stood at his side, watching, her shoulder a mere inch away from his.

"So quiet, girl," he laughed, watching her out of the corner of his eye. "Do not censor yourself on my account. I was all prepared for your haughty banter. I was led to believe you have an opinion about everything, that you always seem to have something to say."

A whisper of a smile graced the corners of Hermione's lips as she remembered the earnest, headstrong girl with the bushy hair and the iron will. She had been so earnest, so ambitious, so imperious—always showing off, always showing everyone up. Always having to prove just how much she knew, just how clever she was, just how far she could go; always having to know more, to do better, go further, improve. Always working so hard, always struggling so much. Always trying, forever trying. Never feeling like it was enough.

The smile faded. "I might have been that way once," she recalled. "But not anymore, not in a long time." No, that girl had been silenced, all the tenacity, the energy drained from her, sucked out of her slowly, the way blood is sucked by a vampire. "Perhaps your informant doesn't know me as well as he thinks," she mused calmly. "If he did, he never would have let you attach yourself to me. He would have seen me for what I am, not for what I used to be." She glanced to the side, met the Dark Lord's gaze squarely. "He would have known that I'm a sinking ship."

Voldemort's gaze simmered as he studied her, intense, intent. "You are not sinking, Hermione. I will not let you," he informed her quietly, his red eyes watching her closely, penetratingly. The words, his eyes—they were filled with silky-dark promise; his voice was quiet, and yet the words were soaked with strange heat. "You are _my_ vessel now. You are mine to sail, to anchor where I will. You are my safe passage to victory." He smiled the carnivorous smile of a snake. "And so, girl, I will see that you stay afloat. As long as I am your captain, you have nothing to fear."

The blood in his red eyes seemed to sizzle with satisfaction, with possession, and Hermione felt a chill prickle up and down her spine. That look, that promise—they frightened her not with their foreignness, but with their familiarity. She recognized it, knew it all too well. She knew what it was to not be a person, to not be a human being. To be a vessel, a weapon, a possession only; to be owned and used and nothing more. She had always only ever been an object, a tool that others utilized for their own purposes and pleasures, an instrument they played for their own amusement or agenda. When had her soul not been a captive? When had her body been hers to give, not theirs to take? When had she ever belonged only to herself? When had she been master of her own heart, her own fate?

Today…

Hermione felt the iron determination of her former years bolster her. With the old tenacity, the old resolve, she kept his penetrating gaze. "I may not have anything to fear. But you do," she informed him.

One corner of the Dark Lord's mouth tilted up at that, smiling jaggedly, the way a hyena smiles. "You think I can be beaten?" he taunted her sardonically. "You think your little friends can defeat _me_?"

"They can. And will."

"They won't touch me; they wouldn't dare. Not as long as I have _you_ as my human shield." The broken veins in his eyes seemed to bleed, seemed to gleam. "I go down and you go down with me," he reminded her, his voice honeyed with warn, sticky-sweet venom.

Hermione's lips tilted up. "I guess we're both going down then," she said quietly. "With me or without me—you're going to lose."

He searched her gaze for a long time, so clear and so certain. "You really do believe that, don't you?" he realized.

She nodded slowly.

He shook his head, considering her thoughtfully, fondly. "You underestimate their love for you. Unassuming girl—don't you understand? They would walk into the fires of hell and burn themselves alive for you. They would die a thousand deaths to save you from even the slightest harm." His smile was slow, superior—evil. "And they will die the first of those before the day is done. The fools." He watched her warmly, kept her gaze when it seemed she might want to look away. "I have been working and waiting for this for a very long time, Hermione. I have laid the perfect plan."

Hermione only let her unreadable gaze go back to the clearing. "Nothing is ever as perfect as it seems."

She heard his quiet laughter, but did not look his way again. She had given him fair warning, had given him a chance. But he was like her—detached, determined. And he was like everyone else—looking at her, seeing only what he wanted to see, only what he could comprehend and nothing more.

She had said all there was to say. Now it was time to do what there was to do. Without another word, another look, another thought, she turned and began to walk away.

"And where, pray tell, do you think you are going?"

She paused but didn't turn back. "Away," she answered calmly.

"That is probably advised. You should never have come to begin with—though, I confess, your company has been a… pleasant surprise." His eyes were bright on her still back, on the burn scar that cascaded down one fragile shoulder to the top of her spine. He took one slow, silent step toward her. "You will be cautious, of course." He took another sly step forward. "We must take special care, wandering through chaos such as this. We wouldn't want any stray spells causing an accident, now would we?"

Hermione didn't move, didn't flinch, even as she felt him take one final step. He was right behind her—close enough for her to feel his cold breath on her curls. Close enough for him to smell their wildflower scent.

His raspy voice held a strangely silky tone; she heard it from somewhere just above her ear. "We have to take care of each other now, Hermione," he said quietly. "After all, we are going to be connected for a very long time, you and I."

She turned back to him slowly, her brows furrowing. She had to tilt her chin up to search his dark red eyes. "What do you mean?" He only watched her slyly. "You don't intend to lift the curse when this over, do you?" she deciphered in disbelief. His simmering smile was the answer. She shook her head, incredulous. "But why?"

The Dark Lord's eyes glittered with red satisfaction. "I am not finished with you, girl. Not by a long shot."

Hermione frowned. The curse was only useful so long as someone wanted her alive _more_ than they wanted Voldemort dead. What good could she possibly be to him once that person—Harry—was gone?

She tried to sort the answers out in his bloody gaze, but the secrets that danced there merely laughed at her attempt. "Staying connected to me would only be a liability," she told him carefully. "If something happens to me—"

"I will just have to make certain that nothing ever does." His smile warmed at the sudden wariness that shadowed her eyes. "I have a quaint little place already set up for you, Hermione," he told her, confirming her suspicions, "a secret little room with no windows or doors. No one will be able to hurt you."

Hermione's eyes narrowed. "Or find me," she guessed.

"_I_ will know where you are," he comforted. "You will have me for company." He tilted his head, studying her countenance with interest. "And perhaps my Heir will pay you a visit every now and again..."

Aside from an uninspired smile and the slight raising of her chin, she did not react to the mention of Malfoy. "So you plan to keep me prisoner for the rest of my life."

"I plan to keep you _safe_," the Dark Lord corrected amusedly. "You will be more my _pet_ than my prisoner. I will make sure you have everything you need—food to eat, clothes to keep you warm." His mouth tilted with humor—and promise. "I will protect your life as if it were my own." Hermione looked away. "I promise you, being locked away is infinitely more favorable than being _dead_," he warned her. "And that is exactly what you will be the _second_ the curse is lifted. Your life is valuable only so far as it is of use to me. Once it ceases to be useful, it _shall_ be terminated." His eyes ran over delicate features. "And that would truly be a pity," he added mildly, his tone wry, but his words sincere.

Hermione looked back to him—shook her head with dull disgust. God, she'd had enough of all the games. It was time to end them once and for all.

"I'm leaving now," she informed him resignedly. "I don't plan on coming back."

The Dark Lord's smile was superior and flippant. "Go where you like. Run as far as you can. There is nowhere you can hide that I will not find you. We are one soul now, after all." Hermione remained still as a statue as he reached one skeletal hand up between them—didn't flinch as he tucked a stray curl behind her ear with sinister tenderness, the cool tips of his fingers just barely brushing the pale scar that ran down one delicate cheekbone. "I will see you when this is over, girl."

Hermione's lips tilted up faintly—grimly. "No you won't," she promised.

And then was gone.

* * *

The boggarts had finally, painstakingly been vanquished, and the true battle, the battle of _men_, had recommenced. It was a different sort of scramble now that numbers had dwindled. There was no more chaos, not exactly. The clearing had fallen quiet, occupied by more dead soldiers than live ones. They were like dead leaves that had been torn from their branches in the violence of a storm. The fight now was was less of a wild whirlwind and more a silent struggle of the sparse, straggling leaves that tried desperately to hang on. Spells were sent more sporadically than before—a bright ball of light that whizzed through the air like a flaming arrow, a dark whirlwind that tore like a tornado through the snow.

Draco took a fast survey as he ducked away from one such streaming light—ignored the singe of heat that had come so close it had almost burned him. So many were on the ground, still, lifeless—more still had been hurried off on stretchers, either in the direction of Hogsmede, where Pomfrey's makeshift infirmary was no doubt set up, or back into the woods, where the Death Eaters had likewise made camp. There was no sure way to say who was dominating, which army had lost more. The clearing was so thick with bodies from both sides, it was impossible to imagine anyone could call it a victory.

Were his parents among the dead? Was his fiancée still living? In that moment, with startling clarity, he realized he didn't care.

"Malfoy."

The sound of his name came from behind him as if it were some deadly curse. The familiar voice was ragged and bitter—filled with the kind of searing hate that only murder could quell.

Draco turned, knowing—dreading—whom he would find there.

"Potter," he acknowledged, calm—gripping his wand, but not raising it.

They considered each other in silence, not acknowledging the noise and movement that sporadically darted around them, much like they had done in the quidditch stadium so many times before. This time, however, there was no golden snitch to hunt for. This was a different game now. They were after a different kind of victory.

They watched each other, an undercurrent of violence pulsating between them, carefully restrained by a kind of vigilant patience. It was reminiscent of another time, a day when they had stood much like this... watching each other from long paces apart, alert, wands at the ready, facing off for some juvenile sense of vengeance or victory. It had seemed so important then—winning that duel, proving definitively that one was better than the other. It had seemed so _dire_, so life-and-death. Now, both were struck by how innocent they had really been then. They had been children in a sandbox playing at toy soldiers, pretending to understand what war looked like, what it felt like, what it meant.

But this wasn't just adolescent one-upmanship any longer. They weren't children anymore. This wasn't make-believe.

And both men knew—were _excruciatingly_ aware—that this time only one of them was going to walk away.

Harry skewered Malfoy with his resentful gaze. "It didn't have to be this way," he told him bitterly. "It didn't have to come to this—_you_ brought it here."

"I know."

The black-haired man nodded slowly. "And now it's too late. There's no way out of this mess for either of us. There's no way to take it back."

Draco felt that to his very core. "I know," he said again, quietly.

Harry swallowed, but the spite didn't go down with the saliva. Accusation was in his every look, his every word. "You've left me no choice." Slowly, purposefully, he pointed his wand at Draco. "This is the ending _you_ wrote, Malfoy. You did this to yourself."

Draco's grip tightened on his wand, but still he didn't raise it. He kept his breathing steady, kept still and alert, ready… waiting…

For an incantation that didn't come.

Potter sent no curse for him to deflect—not just yet. Instead, he pierced him with a question—

"Was it worth it?"

* * *

Hermione hadn't had any destination in mind. If she had, perhaps she would have gone someplace more suitable. Perhaps she would have gone someplace far away from here… some remote, hidden spot where she could be sure no one would intervene.

But she didn't choose the spot; her _feet_ chose for her, carrying her where they wanted her to go. She let them guide her, even when she knew where they were heading, following where they led with silent resignation.

The balcony wasn't different—it was the _view_ that had changed. She saw it now as if for the first time. The warm waves of the loch were flat and frozen over. Snow dusted the surface, hiding it completely from view. The sun beat down in cool grey rays, the white sky and the white world blending together into oblivion. In the back of her mind, she acknowledged the boom and crash of battle, could hear the echoes of walls—and worlds—crumbling down. She could smell smoke, though it didn't drift over her; could taste its char on the tip of her tongue. But the view—oh, the view!—it wasn't tainted… not by the bitter memories of before, not even by the grim realities of now. The place before her was clean and calm and comforting. Its whiteness soothed her with promises of peace. It looked just like that far off place she would often go to, that place where no one could reach her… that place, that only place, where she had been safe.

_Beautiful…_

She carefully climbed onto the stone parapet, just as she had that fateful night—sat with her wand in her lap, contemplating the horizon with a whisper of a smile. Some force had led her back here, _here_ of all places. And now, looking out, she didn't question why. There was a sort of poetry to this, to ending it where it began—a sort of symmetry that reassured her, made it feel right. It wasn't the same as it had been the last time—there was no clawing emptiness, no maddening numbness. She felt… soft, and serene, and somehow _fulfilled_. She felt like she was exactly where she was meant to be.

Her lips tilted. Perhaps this place had always been her destiny—perhaps she had known that, had felt it even then. Perhaps that was why she had jumped, why she had felt the cliffs beckon her, why she had heard the horizon call her name. Perhaps she hadn't chosen this place at all that night. Perhaps it had chosen her long, long before.

For some reason, she had survived that jump. She hadn't known why, not until today. She had been right that night—this fall had always been inevitable. But it hadn't been time yet. It hadn't been time to meet her destiny.

That night had been selfish. What she'd done, she'd done for herself. It had been about her own life—the sorry shreds of a life left behind by a monster. It had been to set herself free of her own restless nightmare. It had been to finally find peace.

But today, it wasn't just about her. It was about Harry and Ron and Ginny and Dumbledore. It was about all the lives, the _thousands_ of lives, that were being destroyed by a monster's touch. It was about setting the _world _free—free of that nightmare, that plague, that monster. It was about helping _them _to finally find peace.

Her gaze fell to the cliffs that waited far below her. They were white, too, and softened with snow. It was a long way down, she remembered. But the endless drop didn't seem so threatening. It seemed… natural. Like the soft and peaceful fall of a snowflake.

She had told him, had tried to warn him. _We're both going down…_

And suddenly she knew what she was meant to do.

This was it, she thought serenely. This was the end. And the beginning.

At last—_at last_—there would be peace.

She thought of her friends. They were going to be angry in the morning. They were going to be furious, and confused, and heartbroken. But they would come to understand. They would forgive her eventually—and carry on, as they always did. She knew—she _knew_—they'd be all right.

She thought of her father. He'd be heartbroken, too. But unlike them, she knew he would never forgive her. She knew he would never forgive himself.

And then… her thoughts turned to Draco Malfoy. She didn't know how he was going to react… what he would feel, or if he would even feel anything. With liberating lightness, she realized it didn't matter. She had never mattered to him.

And, for the first time, she was truly grateful for it—grateful that at least one person would be spared the senseless pain of mourning this.

Hermione closed her eyes, turned her face up to the winter sun. _Things will be different now…_

Things will be _better_.

It was her final thought as she gently pushed herself forward and slid off the parapet. With a contented smile, she let herself become the snowflake.


End file.
